Unthoughtout, unplanned rant follows.
We already know that realtors suck devilish [and devilish amounts of] cock. That's just who they are as scum sucking purveyors of evil and all badness. One accepts that because, well, one must. Sometimes though, they just go that bit too far in the pissing you off stakes. Guess what? Yah. Today was my day.
A couple of weeks back I had an inspection. Everything all fine and froody. I thought it went, if not well, then moderately okay. The inspectress looked down her nose at my humble abode and my humbler living arrangements. I can handle that. My genes have not been spliced with shark and I am descended from a Khan by the name of, oh say, Ghengis so I, quite naturally, do not have her kill and conquer ambitions in life. Nor do I have her inch thick make up but that could be another story. Actually, come to think of it, and judging by the hefty wafts of it, she probably pays as much per week in spak filler, make-up, and perfume as I do rent. Payment - ah - and this is where I'm fuming. Believe me, this is Sydney, this is the inner west, I pay more than enough rent. If I were giving the money to a third world country and living on the streets instead I could probably have them out of debt in about 30-35yrs at current rates. Don't let the humour fool you. I am positively furious because, of course, after the good-going, no structural-or-other damage that is my flat, they had to go and put my rent up. Naturally. That's what you do with a good tenant. You fuck with them in case they grow roots and STAY. Twenty fucking dollars a week. Are you fucking with me? Last tenant lived here two years and never had a hike. They put it up ten bucks fore I move in, I've been here nine months and they hike me TWENTY FUCKING DOLLARS. Oh seriously. For what? Hmmmmmmmmmmm lets see. Carpet is older than I am, place hasn't been painted in at least a decade an the last time it was painted someone pulled a bodgy. Yah. I can see why they'd think I'd wanna be stung and extra twenty a week.
Here's the bit that has me really fucking fuming - the rest has been mere build-up, scene painting, call it what you will...
You know I'm probably going to pay it. My options stink.
Option one - move. There are two parts to option one. I could find another, cheaper, smaller, crappier place [yeah yeah I'll admit that this place was something of a steal - which still isn't saying much]. Option two of option one - housemates. Keep in mind that the whole thought of moving [again] has me gagging. Housemates - oh god, housemates. I disdain the mere idea. I adore living alone. I've actually reached that point in life [and I have quite the short fuse]where I cannot stand living with other people. Their bullshit [and mine to them] is enough to make me want to see how my brain would look as a wall decoration. Call it art if you will, I will, it's called art. I'm sick of the having-to-have-you-as-a-best-friend, partner-lover-stand in until the real thing comes along, the needing a parent, needing advice at ungodly hours, the what's yours in mine and what's mine is mine too crap, the cook because no one else can, the advice giver, the hush hush I'm a poor sleeper [hey, you're nearly thirty - FUCKING WORK IT OUT GROW UP AND STOP BLAMING EVERYONE ELSE FOR YOUR BULLSHIT SHIT], the crap about housework and cleaning, and the cleaning not being done until I start it, or not being done until the bitch is in a bitch cleaning mood and chooses cleaning as a totally non-feminist [gods, did I swear?] passive-aggressive way of making a point [I'm a slob, I admit it - get the fuck over it], cheapness [especially as regards cleaning - is it so wrong to hire a cleaner? seriously? is it a social issue to you? no. it's not even a financial one - IT'S A PETTY BULLSHIT ONE], the inability to have so much as milk in the house, to buy fucking milk, and then there's the prying poking here's what I think of your life, oh I've psychoanalysed you crap that is endless - and I haven't even mentioned when share living going horribly wrong [rent? pay rent? but I am above such things] [testicles? testicles? Oh but now they are fifty fucking meters from your body].
Option two merely involves me bending over and presenting the target. Oh, and handing over the cash, of course.
Can't imagine why I'm not best pleased with the prospect.
[inarticulate sounds of rage]
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Monday, August 29, 2005
Morphean
We were walking, my father and I, down the great plane between the buildings of the sun and the moon. Between the constellations and all the holy places. Where the magicians weave their magic and consult the sky for wisdom.
All around us was activity. The bees with their bustling and busyness. Constructing and arming, building and creating, going through the motions of life. The places of learing were side by side with the chaotic preparations for warfare.
We were at leisure, father and I, and free to talk and discuss at length the higher things. Intellect and discussion, such is the way we were. As we walked we talked about war. The current war and it in comparison with other wars. Discussing war with my father, discussing the merits of war and warfare. Far off it was and we were comfortable and confident in the security of the holy, learned city.
They will use it, said I with the certainty of youth, be it deliberate or accident they will use it.
They.
To this he made no real answer and the conversation progressed. Other things attracted our attention. The folly of war, in concept and in practice. The latter caught my eye as the warrior boys played siege against the walls of the ball courts. One game played in the home of another.
The war games lent tension to the air. A feeling of expectancy in a place considered safe. We walk on. From the right, beyond the boys, comes an eerie mechanical wailing. As we watch as backwards missile a falls from the sky. It lands awkwardly in a take-off position with a thundering boom that echoes from building to building across the plane.
My father says something then cries 'get down'.
But there's no point really. That missile was loaded. There is a blinding flash of light and a mushroom cloud.
And just enough time to know we're dead.
All around us was activity. The bees with their bustling and busyness. Constructing and arming, building and creating, going through the motions of life. The places of learing were side by side with the chaotic preparations for warfare.
We were at leisure, father and I, and free to talk and discuss at length the higher things. Intellect and discussion, such is the way we were. As we walked we talked about war. The current war and it in comparison with other wars. Discussing war with my father, discussing the merits of war and warfare. Far off it was and we were comfortable and confident in the security of the holy, learned city.
They will use it, said I with the certainty of youth, be it deliberate or accident they will use it.
They.
To this he made no real answer and the conversation progressed. Other things attracted our attention. The folly of war, in concept and in practice. The latter caught my eye as the warrior boys played siege against the walls of the ball courts. One game played in the home of another.
The war games lent tension to the air. A feeling of expectancy in a place considered safe. We walk on. From the right, beyond the boys, comes an eerie mechanical wailing. As we watch as backwards missile a falls from the sky. It lands awkwardly in a take-off position with a thundering boom that echoes from building to building across the plane.
My father says something then cries 'get down'.
But there's no point really. That missile was loaded. There is a blinding flash of light and a mushroom cloud.
And just enough time to know we're dead.
Happy Birthday
It would be churlish not to - she said.
So I did.
Happy Birthday -- I sent.
You weren't supposed to reply and so promptly. You were supposed to just ignore me.
Ugh.
And with this horror of our formal names.
So I did.
Happy Birthday -- I sent.
You weren't supposed to reply and so promptly. You were supposed to just ignore me.
Ugh.
And with this horror of our formal names.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Cornstalk
I have spent my day and days off in idle pursuits. [Read: I’ve flicked through the easy bits of the weekend papers, read bits of books I’ve read before, spent too much time on the internet, done none of my housework, and drunk some beer.] This afternoon I felt the need to do something – okay, I lie, I wanted to make good on cheap books – and took a wander down to Cornstalk. I must admit that I picked up some gems and have given my arms a lovely workout on the walk home. What I had not expected was to feel so guilty about profiteering. It seems reasonable that when a store closes the stock’s price is reduced. So far so good. The harassed and saddened looking owner charging next to nothing for his stock – not so good. Had I been a better customer I would’ve spent some more time in his store and more money buying his stock. Insofar as second-hand bookshops go I have had some fantastic finds in Cornstalk. Today was no exception. Yet, somehow, my economical purchases have been cheapened by the loss of the store. Ironically, I wish I’d paid full price. I wish I’d bought more often from there. I wish I could have tipped him or something.
Then again, if books can be memorials and holders of memory and all things wonderful then my epitaph for Cornstalk shall be the charming little tome ‘The Intelligent Woman’s Guide to Socialism and Capitalism’ by Bernard Shaw. How could I let anyone but me buy this? Well, obviously, I couldn’t. I have yet to read a page and already I am smitten. [– well, who wouldn’t be with such a title?] It combines two of my favourite things, history and politics, in my preferred context. Dating from 1928 it is inherently historical and its content is political [I am so excited by my find that I am failing to articulate my meaning!]. I do love to read about political innovation and innovations in political thought from a time before the phrases are hackneyed and their meanings altered. Not that these were ‘new’ ideas in the late nineteen-twenties merely newer than now. So much more fascinating and exciting then than now. I think I might have to go off, think about what I mean to say, worship my sweet little book [take it to bed, gaze at it adoringly, that kind of thing..] and perhaps come back, one day, and blog further.
There were other books and I bought a [very heavy] handful – a volume of science fiction short stories from between 1942 and 1969, the cover of which reads ‘Adventures in Religious Science Fiction’, could be fun for a buck; a copy of ‘The Silmarillion’ from the year of my birth, I strongly suspect that my father may thieve this; ‘Radio Free Europe and the Pursuit of Democracy’ – good experiences with Nancy Mitford have left me with an eagerness to purchase anything with ‘the pursuit of’ in the title; and some Christina Stead because I always feel so slack for never reading Australian fiction – especially that written by women. I love new old books. I am such a book tragic. Now fuck off, dear readers, I have books to play with!
Then again, if books can be memorials and holders of memory and all things wonderful then my epitaph for Cornstalk shall be the charming little tome ‘The Intelligent Woman’s Guide to Socialism and Capitalism’ by Bernard Shaw. How could I let anyone but me buy this? Well, obviously, I couldn’t. I have yet to read a page and already I am smitten. [– well, who wouldn’t be with such a title?] It combines two of my favourite things, history and politics, in my preferred context. Dating from 1928 it is inherently historical and its content is political [I am so excited by my find that I am failing to articulate my meaning!]. I do love to read about political innovation and innovations in political thought from a time before the phrases are hackneyed and their meanings altered. Not that these were ‘new’ ideas in the late nineteen-twenties merely newer than now. So much more fascinating and exciting then than now. I think I might have to go off, think about what I mean to say, worship my sweet little book [take it to bed, gaze at it adoringly, that kind of thing..] and perhaps come back, one day, and blog further.
There were other books and I bought a [very heavy] handful – a volume of science fiction short stories from between 1942 and 1969, the cover of which reads ‘Adventures in Religious Science Fiction’, could be fun for a buck; a copy of ‘The Silmarillion’ from the year of my birth, I strongly suspect that my father may thieve this; ‘Radio Free Europe and the Pursuit of Democracy’ – good experiences with Nancy Mitford have left me with an eagerness to purchase anything with ‘the pursuit of’ in the title; and some Christina Stead because I always feel so slack for never reading Australian fiction – especially that written by women. I love new old books. I am such a book tragic. Now fuck off, dear readers, I have books to play with!
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Beauty and Brains
I am become a blogwhore and something I’ve read somewhere has inspired me. It may have insipid me, I’m not sure. The insipid may be natural. Actually, I think it may have been BourbonBird on her work as an anime character. I think we can see the theme of this blog. Themes. Beauty and vanity. What fun is the one without the other? No, seriously. Two very separate things which frequently get together, mate, and produce some serious monsters. Shall I be wordy and clever and use leviathan? I do like that. Lovely word. Such a delicious grotesqueness to it. See how I almost dance around the topic? Wanting to and to not to. A confused little place to be. There will be some nasty personal truths here. How awful. How boring. How blog.
The line [it was easier to trawl for than to paraphrase, what a surprise] was ‘I was comfortable being socially uncomfortable to deal with’ [The Bird, July 2005, look right]. I think I’ve made a life of this. An entire lifestyle. It surely cannot be natural this terrible awkwardness that I am to deal with. I think it’s created. A projection. A creation of a persona to make it easier to be and not be. Life is nothing without contradiction, no? Perhaps it is me who is nothing without contradiction.
Where to begin once you’ve woken up to your nightmares?
I think I’ll start off with one of the decisions that I remember making – consciously – that has led me to here. Here being the unappealing character I’m telling you I am. There’s really nothing so fun as taking the scalpel to one’s self, is there? That might be irony.
This will surprise you – I was not a happy teenager. I was not a happy child. Actually I was an exceedingly shy watcher of a child. I was also quite a pretty child. I bring this up because it has relevance and also to appease my vanity. One must spend some small time in life being attractive, even if it’s in retrospect. As a teen though I was unhappy by situation, literal and since modified, and through habit. I don’t actually remember being a happy happy person. Not ever. I was serious even as a child. Perhaps what I’m saying is that I don’t now and never have suffered from a Pollyanna personality. I also had a fierce temper. Anyone who reads this and thinks they’ve seen me lose my temper is very wrong. I am a thousand fold calmer than I used to be and am now an easier personality.
I’ll get to the point. During my fun-filled teen days, or possibly before [I had the misfortune to be physically adult from the age of about 11. Very unfortunate. Nasty and wrong in so many ways.] I made the decision, consciously – she emphasises, to not play up to looks to not be, in my patois of the time, vain. Ironic,huh? I was a stupider child than I thought.
Inverse vanity.
I have suffered extremely from vanity ever since. Vanity that is not particular to looks. [I could if I wanted and it’d be good but I don’t want to so I won’t so aren’t I better than you?]. A delightful combination of vanity and fear informs everything I do. Again, not merely looks where not only do I not try but I go out of the ordinary to be unattractive. I do not have to be fat, I do not have to have bad hair, I do not have to dress badly, I do not have to not emphasise my looks to increase my attractiveness for fun or to feel good or whatever – I choose to. [Did I mention that this wasn’t going to be pretty?] [Oh but I’m so clever and funny.] I never really make an effort, like it’s beneath me to be attractive. There are so many dishonest advantages to this – the smallest effort and people behave like you’re suddenly gorgeous, they compliment you unnecessarily – you brush them off. It’s a cynical way to be but old habits die so hard.
Again, it does not begin and end with my looks. [Pity, because that would have been fun.]
I also suffer from ridiculous amounts of intellectual vanity. Undeserved and unproven. I am not a great intellectual. It took me five years to finish a B.A. and that was after failing pretty much as many classes as I undertook. Laziness in most cases. I can count the number of essays I got in on time. The number of exams I studied for. It really isn’t that difficult to pass. It’s not even that difficult to do better than pass. Oh dear, I’m doing it now. Woe me, I didn’t find it that hard. Not enough of a challenge. It is, of course, as much of a challenge as you make it – especially in the arts. It truly is a case of what you put in you get out. Very little equals not a whole lot. I still feel like a fraud. I also find it harder to see outside of my intellectual vanity than my physical. It’s more painful because I would otherwise have pretended that one was given up for the other. But no, the truth is I never really try. The same patterns for both arenas. None of the natural perfection that I am inclined to expect.
Work is, of course, an anathema. To work implies effort. Effort is trying. Trying suggests desire. Desire suggests. To do it, to work, suggests pandering to vanity. To try to look good, to try to achieve. To try is to compete. To compete is to participate. To participate is to put vanity back in its proper place. To participate is also to be like others. To lose difference.
How very tangled. How very twisted.
The line [it was easier to trawl for than to paraphrase, what a surprise] was ‘I was comfortable being socially uncomfortable to deal with’ [The Bird, July 2005, look right]. I think I’ve made a life of this. An entire lifestyle. It surely cannot be natural this terrible awkwardness that I am to deal with. I think it’s created. A projection. A creation of a persona to make it easier to be and not be. Life is nothing without contradiction, no? Perhaps it is me who is nothing without contradiction.
Where to begin once you’ve woken up to your nightmares?
I think I’ll start off with one of the decisions that I remember making – consciously – that has led me to here. Here being the unappealing character I’m telling you I am. There’s really nothing so fun as taking the scalpel to one’s self, is there? That might be irony.
This will surprise you – I was not a happy teenager. I was not a happy child. Actually I was an exceedingly shy watcher of a child. I was also quite a pretty child. I bring this up because it has relevance and also to appease my vanity. One must spend some small time in life being attractive, even if it’s in retrospect. As a teen though I was unhappy by situation, literal and since modified, and through habit. I don’t actually remember being a happy happy person. Not ever. I was serious even as a child. Perhaps what I’m saying is that I don’t now and never have suffered from a Pollyanna personality. I also had a fierce temper. Anyone who reads this and thinks they’ve seen me lose my temper is very wrong. I am a thousand fold calmer than I used to be and am now an easier personality.
I’ll get to the point. During my fun-filled teen days, or possibly before [I had the misfortune to be physically adult from the age of about 11. Very unfortunate. Nasty and wrong in so many ways.] I made the decision, consciously – she emphasises, to not play up to looks to not be, in my patois of the time, vain. Ironic,huh? I was a stupider child than I thought.
Inverse vanity.
I have suffered extremely from vanity ever since. Vanity that is not particular to looks. [I could if I wanted and it’d be good but I don’t want to so I won’t so aren’t I better than you?]. A delightful combination of vanity and fear informs everything I do. Again, not merely looks where not only do I not try but I go out of the ordinary to be unattractive. I do not have to be fat, I do not have to have bad hair, I do not have to dress badly, I do not have to not emphasise my looks to increase my attractiveness for fun or to feel good or whatever – I choose to. [Did I mention that this wasn’t going to be pretty?] [Oh but I’m so clever and funny.] I never really make an effort, like it’s beneath me to be attractive. There are so many dishonest advantages to this – the smallest effort and people behave like you’re suddenly gorgeous, they compliment you unnecessarily – you brush them off. It’s a cynical way to be but old habits die so hard.
Again, it does not begin and end with my looks. [Pity, because that would have been fun.]
I also suffer from ridiculous amounts of intellectual vanity. Undeserved and unproven. I am not a great intellectual. It took me five years to finish a B.A. and that was after failing pretty much as many classes as I undertook. Laziness in most cases. I can count the number of essays I got in on time. The number of exams I studied for. It really isn’t that difficult to pass. It’s not even that difficult to do better than pass. Oh dear, I’m doing it now. Woe me, I didn’t find it that hard. Not enough of a challenge. It is, of course, as much of a challenge as you make it – especially in the arts. It truly is a case of what you put in you get out. Very little equals not a whole lot. I still feel like a fraud. I also find it harder to see outside of my intellectual vanity than my physical. It’s more painful because I would otherwise have pretended that one was given up for the other. But no, the truth is I never really try. The same patterns for both arenas. None of the natural perfection that I am inclined to expect.
Work is, of course, an anathema. To work implies effort. Effort is trying. Trying suggests desire. Desire suggests. To do it, to work, suggests pandering to vanity. To try to look good, to try to achieve. To try is to compete. To compete is to participate. To participate is to put vanity back in its proper place. To participate is also to be like others. To lose difference.
How very tangled. How very twisted.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
I know I’m paraphrasing but…
I need a drink and a peer group. [The ever delightful Douglas Adams]
The right peer group. I want to get drunk like it’s 1999 and it’s a hot summer’s night in a little shithole I like to call hell. Back before three of us fled and two of us bred and everyone else ceased to exist [the little group that always is]. Back before the degrees and the babies and the shithouse jobs and the debt and the adulthood that we surely cannot yet be ready for. There is something so special about those nights. Stumbling down the main drag of the nightclub area. The same places every weekend. And always all of them. Bumping into and avoiding those prats from school. The grog, the cheap vodka, that evil tequila fuelled Halloween, the chronic dehydration brought about by too much alcohol and 90% humidity. The hangovers in dark air-conditioned rooms that move and lurch as you lie upon your bed. Something so special about those nights that we weren’t even aware of. Back to the time when the friendships were still quite young and we were still quite young.
Only this time I want us as we are now. With the confidence a degree of maturity brings. The confidence that crying your eyes out in a strange city feeling totally unloved and like you are destined to fail brings. The confidence that life brings. The freedom that youth has. The freedom of a lack of obligation. The freedom of proximity. We won’t have it again, of course. Some things, once lost, are gone forever. I can’t even remember the last time we were all in the same town. It may never happen again, not through serendipity anyway.
I have watched my friends grow. Fabulous people becoming more fabulous. Distance being not the tyranny claimed but a way of bringing us closer. The differences and the different experiences aiding each and informing the other’s world view. Not necessarily liking each other’s decisions but respecting friends and loving them for who they are. All of which is great. This is friendship. This is love. This is life. It’s taken everything to bring us to this point and it’s not a bad point. But sometimes even the good things suck. The distances in Australia are appalling.
It would be nice to phone them up and get drunk together. Just like the old days.
The right peer group. I want to get drunk like it’s 1999 and it’s a hot summer’s night in a little shithole I like to call hell. Back before three of us fled and two of us bred and everyone else ceased to exist [the little group that always is]. Back before the degrees and the babies and the shithouse jobs and the debt and the adulthood that we surely cannot yet be ready for. There is something so special about those nights. Stumbling down the main drag of the nightclub area. The same places every weekend. And always all of them. Bumping into and avoiding those prats from school. The grog, the cheap vodka, that evil tequila fuelled Halloween, the chronic dehydration brought about by too much alcohol and 90% humidity. The hangovers in dark air-conditioned rooms that move and lurch as you lie upon your bed. Something so special about those nights that we weren’t even aware of. Back to the time when the friendships were still quite young and we were still quite young.
Only this time I want us as we are now. With the confidence a degree of maturity brings. The confidence that crying your eyes out in a strange city feeling totally unloved and like you are destined to fail brings. The confidence that life brings. The freedom that youth has. The freedom of a lack of obligation. The freedom of proximity. We won’t have it again, of course. Some things, once lost, are gone forever. I can’t even remember the last time we were all in the same town. It may never happen again, not through serendipity anyway.
I have watched my friends grow. Fabulous people becoming more fabulous. Distance being not the tyranny claimed but a way of bringing us closer. The differences and the different experiences aiding each and informing the other’s world view. Not necessarily liking each other’s decisions but respecting friends and loving them for who they are. All of which is great. This is friendship. This is love. This is life. It’s taken everything to bring us to this point and it’s not a bad point. But sometimes even the good things suck. The distances in Australia are appalling.
It would be nice to phone them up and get drunk together. Just like the old days.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Neighbourly war
It's on. It's here. It's now.
Music war.
Guitar boy.
Weird danco-shite [was that a sitar I heard?] across the hall?
And the ever delightful me.
Damn, I can still hear that solo.
If only my remote had working batteries...
Music war.
Guitar boy.
Weird danco-shite [was that a sitar I heard?] across the hall?
And the ever delightful me.
Damn, I can still hear that solo.
If only my remote had working batteries...
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Dilemmas of the twenty-first century
It is always difficult to cut the ties that bind.
There has to be good reason. I have to remind myself of the reasons. Then I have to do it again. I keep with the reminders on every spare piece of paper. I delve into old emails and diaries. I remember old conversations. I remember the thousands of text messages. Oh what I could have purchased! I phone a friend for confirmation. I write you into the ether. I write where you’ll never read. Almost a pity, that.
This week has not been good for me. I thought I had this sorted. I thought I had it thoroughly thought out, analysed, compartmentalised. Maybe I have. I cannot take the nowhere land of your friendship. We do not and never have had the kind of relationship where there can be gaps of months. I am almost surprised that you thought we had. It may have been my obsession but you played up to it far too much. Maybe it made you feel good.
I thought I was doing rather well. Sorting things and figuring my life out. Fighting the eternal battle, you know the one, against my chaos. Some things just don’t seem to change. I have a sort of equilibrium. I have a sense of something pending. I know I’m in an in-between stage. I know you don’t feature. You never featured. You never wanted to. I sometimes wonder about that. If I could speak to you I’d be tempted to ask why. I probably wouldn’t pick up the phone though. Some things are so thoroughly past and must remain that way.
So I have removed myself from your vanity list. I have deleted your email. I’d block you but that seems childish. You are entitled to right of reply. You are entitled to question me, should you choose to. No, wait, you never choose to. I don’t expect to hear from you. Yet I find that I cannot remove your phone number. I remember too well your sweet awkwardness as you gave me the number, making sure your name was spelled correctly. I remember the strange calls, the painful silences, the arguments. The text messages never replied to. So why did the last time surprise me?
For years you were there for me. You were happy to listen and offer advice. You were a support and a friend, when it suited you.
I was there for you. You never needed me. Not once. Or did I just not notice?
Snip.
There has to be good reason. I have to remind myself of the reasons. Then I have to do it again. I keep with the reminders on every spare piece of paper. I delve into old emails and diaries. I remember old conversations. I remember the thousands of text messages. Oh what I could have purchased! I phone a friend for confirmation. I write you into the ether. I write where you’ll never read. Almost a pity, that.
This week has not been good for me. I thought I had this sorted. I thought I had it thoroughly thought out, analysed, compartmentalised. Maybe I have. I cannot take the nowhere land of your friendship. We do not and never have had the kind of relationship where there can be gaps of months. I am almost surprised that you thought we had. It may have been my obsession but you played up to it far too much. Maybe it made you feel good.
I thought I was doing rather well. Sorting things and figuring my life out. Fighting the eternal battle, you know the one, against my chaos. Some things just don’t seem to change. I have a sort of equilibrium. I have a sense of something pending. I know I’m in an in-between stage. I know you don’t feature. You never featured. You never wanted to. I sometimes wonder about that. If I could speak to you I’d be tempted to ask why. I probably wouldn’t pick up the phone though. Some things are so thoroughly past and must remain that way.
So I have removed myself from your vanity list. I have deleted your email. I’d block you but that seems childish. You are entitled to right of reply. You are entitled to question me, should you choose to. No, wait, you never choose to. I don’t expect to hear from you. Yet I find that I cannot remove your phone number. I remember too well your sweet awkwardness as you gave me the number, making sure your name was spelled correctly. I remember the strange calls, the painful silences, the arguments. The text messages never replied to. So why did the last time surprise me?
For years you were there for me. You were happy to listen and offer advice. You were a support and a friend, when it suited you.
I was there for you. You never needed me. Not once. Or did I just not notice?
Snip.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Friday, August 05, 2005
I've never understood
He calls me by my full name.
First name, that is.
I’ve never had anybody else name me with such distinction. I’ve never had anybody else always call me by all seven letters all seven letters of the time. I’ve had perfect strangers shorten my name. He uses it insistently like a reminder. I don’t need reminding.
I know he doesn’t like my name. Dislikes, yet uses every last letter. My name is evocative of something he dislikes profoundly yet is oddly attracted to. Not, I stress, sexually attracted. Though I suspect there’s an element of that too – though not specifically with me. My name is common. Class common not overused common. He uses it to remind himself of this. He does it remind himself of how common I am, how coarse. Being so coarse and common I cannot be attractive. I cannot be wanted. He cannot want me, it is not his nature. He can lead me and instruct me and better me. That’s what you do with the common and the ordinary and the commonly and ordinarily broken – you fix them. You help them and teach them. You assign a certain class to the classless by using their given moniker with as much style as you can muster. In this case the unadulterated name links to literature and thus to culture.
There is also the barrier of formality. What kind of intimacy is contained in formal usage? Certainly, none is implied. An outsider would assume an acquaintanceship over a friendship. There is an ease in friendship which belies such formality. Neither emotional nor physical intimacy is allowed with the unhallowed. They are to be avoided. They are to be held back with formality. They are to be pushed away, always. Yet…
There is always a yet.
He comes back though I stab at him with words. He comes back for what and why I don’t know. I sketch and assassinate his character in words. I push and push him away and always draw him closer. He could choose an ending but he never has. I have always done the pushing and pulling and the tearing of souls. I have always kept him informed of just enough. I have been contempt. I have been need. I have personified every emotion between. I have acted all things and acted out all things. I have always kept contact and made allowances and excuses.
And then, one day, I don’t.
And I keep not doing it.
First name, that is.
I’ve never had anybody else name me with such distinction. I’ve never had anybody else always call me by all seven letters all seven letters of the time. I’ve had perfect strangers shorten my name. He uses it insistently like a reminder. I don’t need reminding.
I know he doesn’t like my name. Dislikes, yet uses every last letter. My name is evocative of something he dislikes profoundly yet is oddly attracted to. Not, I stress, sexually attracted. Though I suspect there’s an element of that too – though not specifically with me. My name is common. Class common not overused common. He uses it to remind himself of this. He does it remind himself of how common I am, how coarse. Being so coarse and common I cannot be attractive. I cannot be wanted. He cannot want me, it is not his nature. He can lead me and instruct me and better me. That’s what you do with the common and the ordinary and the commonly and ordinarily broken – you fix them. You help them and teach them. You assign a certain class to the classless by using their given moniker with as much style as you can muster. In this case the unadulterated name links to literature and thus to culture.
There is also the barrier of formality. What kind of intimacy is contained in formal usage? Certainly, none is implied. An outsider would assume an acquaintanceship over a friendship. There is an ease in friendship which belies such formality. Neither emotional nor physical intimacy is allowed with the unhallowed. They are to be avoided. They are to be held back with formality. They are to be pushed away, always. Yet…
There is always a yet.
He comes back though I stab at him with words. He comes back for what and why I don’t know. I sketch and assassinate his character in words. I push and push him away and always draw him closer. He could choose an ending but he never has. I have always done the pushing and pulling and the tearing of souls. I have always kept him informed of just enough. I have been contempt. I have been need. I have personified every emotion between. I have acted all things and acted out all things. I have always kept contact and made allowances and excuses.
And then, one day, I don’t.
And I keep not doing it.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Entropy
I have done something profoundly stupid.
There are those who, from that statement alone, will make certain assumptions. Those assumptions are correct.
It goes like this:
Yesterday, as I played, merry and fickle, upon the internet, I had this idea to check upon my email. Seems logical, right? Seems sensible, right? One can’t leave one’s inbox too long or it will fill with junk that will take seconds upon seconds to tidy. So I checked my email. The email address that has my actual name in it [this has relevance later]. I find some junk, some more junk, and an email from a name that alone is enough to make my stomach drop and my heart leap into my throat and make me catch my breath and make me want to be terribly, violently ill. Such strong physical reactions should be enough to make one leave well enough alone and head to the hills and the like but I’m quite a perverse kid in oh so many ways and leave should for the cowards and click the box. Can you see my first mistake? I opened when I should have deleted and blocked.
Usually, I enjoy receiving mail from males I know. It’s just that I’ve developed and odd kind of aversion to this one based on a twisted shared history that I ended [rather, thought I had ended] some months back in the expectation of full cooperation. After all, someone who ignores you after serious trauma and has a general policy of not contacting*, if not explicitly ignoring, you is not likely to contact you after some months asking you to join some crappy friend’s network. Right? I guessed wrong too, apparently. I’m now working with the theory that this was an accident on his part and that I’ll hear no more of it. I’ve been ignored in every possible way by this boy, and sometimes for weeks and months on end, so hearing ‘no more of it’ does not concern me. What concerns me is hearing more of it.
The second blunder I made was the mistake of curiosity. The original email was tantalisingly dull and empty. I felt I had to know more. [For the voice of Nicole, all a-ringing in my head, YES I WAS BEING OBSESSIVE AND STUPID.] He threw me a line and I swallowed half the reel. I was curious so I tried to investigate. It was late at night. I’m not very good with technology. I’m making excuses for what I did next. [Any Freudians reading this please fuck off now.] The easiest way, so I thought, to find out what this thing was and what it did would surely be to join. So, being clever like me, I joined. Being clever like me I joined not using the email address he’d invited me with but another one. Oh my brothers, can you see how I fucked this up? I joined using not my simple easy name, not the name he knows me by, not even some cute little mean nothing that I don’t use. I joined up using this ridiculous name: nailpolishblues. Email and all.**
This may seem like a mere bagatelle to you, dear readers, but I have rather a lot of reservations about people I know reading the things I write. Surprisingly, this is not because I’m afraid that they’ll find out that I’m shallow, vain, egotistical, a terrible gossip, a terrible bitch [these are some of my better points, you understand] or the like. People who know me, and know me well, know my faults rather well as well. That aspect bothers me little. What I don’t like is the desire or need to censor myself to make my words acceptable and palatable to others. So, for example, if my mother or some of my closer friends were to read this they might be taken aback by some of the things I may say or how I may say them. I neither want to hurt them nor feel their accusing eyes. [And yes, my mother’s eyes – her voice too – accuse.] A barrier, a buffer between here and there. I don’t consider that unreasonable. I’ve spent most of my life building those barriers to have a little of the space I crave.
This is a little personal space [and shared for the sake of my vanity and Nicole’s inbox] that I had hoped to keep clear of certain pollutants. This boy [known as The Bastard which is short for the-bastard-formerly-known-as-the-object formerly known as The Object] fits into the category of people I didn’t want finding this. Possibly ever. I wrote a thesis in emails on him. I obsessed and thought [excuse me whilst I laugh my arse off – big arse will take some time], thought and possibly hoped, I would never hear from again owing to his ability – just by being – of making me a total and compleat wreck of a human being. That’s awful, isn’t it? I spent ages going all out for his attention, in a warped sort of way, and now I think I’m better off with him pretending that I’m dead. I absolutely adored this boy and treated him like shit accordingly, because, of course, it wasn’t mutual. You cannot be nice to someone when you are engaged in a war with yourself to do nothing to drive them away, further away. [Oh what a kooky rationale. Funny how you can think you’re over something, isn’t it?] What’s more awful is that I’m in [at least] two minds writing this. There is the hoping he’ll find and the hoping he won’t and I’m probably being more vindictive and better-off-not-knowing-you because of the former. I gain or lose little either way. I feel more self-loathing knowing I’ve been unfair and am still being unfair and am excusing him and giving him loopholes by doing this.
I really cannot be nice when I am torn in so many different directions. Maybe he didn’t get that text. Maybe he actually misses me – yeah, after six months or more of limited or no contact. Maybe he’s just slow. Maybe he’s just afraid of this. And now I’m writing, once again, for an audience of one. Too much to say and I’m not all that sure I want to say it. Probably it’s just because it’s his birthday soon and he’s lonely locked away in the country and I am such an easy, such a grateful self-negating, way of boosting his ego and making him feel loved. Probably it was just a stupid impulse. Probably already forgotten. Probably I’ll never know.
* When somebody has your full name, your email address, and two of your phone numbers and they still choose not to contact you... Yeah, I thought that meant ‘fuck off and die, lamo bitch’ too.
** Make that two email addresses and two phone numbers.
There are those who, from that statement alone, will make certain assumptions. Those assumptions are correct.
It goes like this:
Yesterday, as I played, merry and fickle, upon the internet, I had this idea to check upon my email. Seems logical, right? Seems sensible, right? One can’t leave one’s inbox too long or it will fill with junk that will take seconds upon seconds to tidy. So I checked my email. The email address that has my actual name in it [this has relevance later]. I find some junk, some more junk, and an email from a name that alone is enough to make my stomach drop and my heart leap into my throat and make me catch my breath and make me want to be terribly, violently ill. Such strong physical reactions should be enough to make one leave well enough alone and head to the hills and the like but I’m quite a perverse kid in oh so many ways and leave should for the cowards and click the box. Can you see my first mistake? I opened when I should have deleted and blocked.
Usually, I enjoy receiving mail from males I know. It’s just that I’ve developed and odd kind of aversion to this one based on a twisted shared history that I ended [rather, thought I had ended] some months back in the expectation of full cooperation. After all, someone who ignores you after serious trauma and has a general policy of not contacting*, if not explicitly ignoring, you is not likely to contact you after some months asking you to join some crappy friend’s network. Right? I guessed wrong too, apparently. I’m now working with the theory that this was an accident on his part and that I’ll hear no more of it. I’ve been ignored in every possible way by this boy, and sometimes for weeks and months on end, so hearing ‘no more of it’ does not concern me. What concerns me is hearing more of it.
The second blunder I made was the mistake of curiosity. The original email was tantalisingly dull and empty. I felt I had to know more. [For the voice of Nicole, all a-ringing in my head, YES I WAS BEING OBSESSIVE AND STUPID.] He threw me a line and I swallowed half the reel. I was curious so I tried to investigate. It was late at night. I’m not very good with technology. I’m making excuses for what I did next. [Any Freudians reading this please fuck off now.] The easiest way, so I thought, to find out what this thing was and what it did would surely be to join. So, being clever like me, I joined. Being clever like me I joined not using the email address he’d invited me with but another one. Oh my brothers, can you see how I fucked this up? I joined using not my simple easy name, not the name he knows me by, not even some cute little mean nothing that I don’t use. I joined up using this ridiculous name: nailpolishblues. Email and all.**
This may seem like a mere bagatelle to you, dear readers, but I have rather a lot of reservations about people I know reading the things I write. Surprisingly, this is not because I’m afraid that they’ll find out that I’m shallow, vain, egotistical, a terrible gossip, a terrible bitch [these are some of my better points, you understand] or the like. People who know me, and know me well, know my faults rather well as well. That aspect bothers me little. What I don’t like is the desire or need to censor myself to make my words acceptable and palatable to others. So, for example, if my mother or some of my closer friends were to read this they might be taken aback by some of the things I may say or how I may say them. I neither want to hurt them nor feel their accusing eyes. [And yes, my mother’s eyes – her voice too – accuse.] A barrier, a buffer between here and there. I don’t consider that unreasonable. I’ve spent most of my life building those barriers to have a little of the space I crave.
This is a little personal space [and shared for the sake of my vanity and Nicole’s inbox] that I had hoped to keep clear of certain pollutants. This boy [known as The Bastard which is short for the-bastard-formerly-known-as-the-object formerly known as The Object] fits into the category of people I didn’t want finding this. Possibly ever. I wrote a thesis in emails on him. I obsessed and thought [excuse me whilst I laugh my arse off – big arse will take some time], thought and possibly hoped, I would never hear from again owing to his ability – just by being – of making me a total and compleat wreck of a human being. That’s awful, isn’t it? I spent ages going all out for his attention, in a warped sort of way, and now I think I’m better off with him pretending that I’m dead. I absolutely adored this boy and treated him like shit accordingly, because, of course, it wasn’t mutual. You cannot be nice to someone when you are engaged in a war with yourself to do nothing to drive them away, further away. [Oh what a kooky rationale. Funny how you can think you’re over something, isn’t it?] What’s more awful is that I’m in [at least] two minds writing this. There is the hoping he’ll find and the hoping he won’t and I’m probably being more vindictive and better-off-not-knowing-you because of the former. I gain or lose little either way. I feel more self-loathing knowing I’ve been unfair and am still being unfair and am excusing him and giving him loopholes by doing this.
I really cannot be nice when I am torn in so many different directions. Maybe he didn’t get that text. Maybe he actually misses me – yeah, after six months or more of limited or no contact. Maybe he’s just slow. Maybe he’s just afraid of this. And now I’m writing, once again, for an audience of one. Too much to say and I’m not all that sure I want to say it. Probably it’s just because it’s his birthday soon and he’s lonely locked away in the country and I am such an easy, such a grateful self-negating, way of boosting his ego and making him feel loved. Probably it was just a stupid impulse. Probably already forgotten. Probably I’ll never know.
* When somebody has your full name, your email address, and two of your phone numbers and they still choose not to contact you... Yeah, I thought that meant ‘fuck off and die, lamo bitch’ too.
** Make that two email addresses and two phone numbers.
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