maybe no xanax

November 10, 2011 § Leave a comment

It is a crummy room with no facilities but the night’s sleep is what I want.  I have been on Xanax since I started this, it doesn’t really work any more either.  The constant threat of being homeless and all of a sudden it is all over.  The tenant moves out every time the rent goes up, every time they finish a course, every time their boyfriend comes back, and I am turmoil again.  The land agents make me uneasy in the stomach, as do most people who are dramatically overdressed for their job.  Don’t even get me started on Centrelink, who give and take payments away, end whole lives.  The tension in the queue is always audible and bursts out in little ephitets such as:  “ah, so you don’t even give an old lady a chair, then” (not the lady herself).  The subtext being ‘you fucking arseholes with your fucking databases.  Something I did in 1993 is going to stop me from doing postgraduate study and that, friends, is called class war.”  Because class doesn’t wear discriminating shoes and trousers which make nice paintings in the real word, we aren’t talking no neo-Marxist aesthetics i’m sorry you thought I was being realist when I was being yeah real  I habve anxi=ety and there is a family kneeling on the cushion next to the computer.  They have a dog.  we are talking class.  People who want to get a payment done so they can eat and feed the children.

I wonder

Almost asked this woman here something, jugging around not the clown one.  she has her arms around the one in the green hat and they hide and go peek.

I am ugly in the swirling flamesi pick out the wrong bits that

more like in a hospital now everyone waiting beside me.

xanax.  better with wine

 

wait ing wait ing

All The Furniture In The House

November 7, 2011 § 1 Comment

Moving now.  Chucking all my things out.

I hate it.  I have my favourite everything from 1993.  That candle that they don’t make any more because the shop went out of business because twenty five dollars for a candle is absurd but in the sale I bought five so I would have that smell if I ever wanted it basically until death?  I have four of those.

Vintage coats.  I live in Sydney, where it is so humid that mould grows on one’s toothbrush.  And I have a wardrobe full of plush/retro/vinyl coats, just sitting there with their sleeves poking out of the open door like there is a queue for a London disco in there.

There are these two bags; they are black, plastic, over buckled, tasseled, cheap, horrible bags.  The woman gave me a funny look when I bought them.  The look was:  those bags are not very nice.  Are you sure you want to spend fifty dollars on *those* bags?  I get paid commission, I have absolutely no idea who you are, but out of pure human decency I beg you to consider the decision to sacrifice fifty dollars worth of every single other thing on earth in order to buy those clearly fucking hideous bags.  YOU WILL NEVER USE THEM.

I bought the bags.  I never used them.  I’m throwing them away.

Sadly, much of what is in that room represented a dream. The dark wood furniture with the vintage clothes sticking out of the door,  the 450 books on the antique-style bookcase, the king-size bed with 8 pillows of different shapes and sizes, it was all my aesthetic vision for who I wanted to be, as a teenager and young adult, and I erased my childhood room to create it.  That is why it is meaningful that the furniture was a gift from my dad.  He didn’t particularly like spending money, but he helped me make my little corner in the house my own, and it seemed like an endorsement of my blooming individuality, or artistic spirit.  What annoyed me particularly – I remember – is that my mum used the colour scheme and applied it to the rest of the house.  It irritated me that she either couldn’t tell what I was doing, or didn’t care.  I’m like that.

All this is being swept away for another dream – a completely uncertain education-themed dream.  I spend a lot of time these days wondering what the hell I am doing and if it is worth it at all.  I seem to just lose things and sacrifice things and run out of money and worry about writing and hate writing and love writing and feel torn between two cities – two cultures – which both make me feel completely uncomfortable.  All I know is, it is not time to go back just yet.  I will live on less money, on less food, in a smaller hole.  I will throw things I love away.  I will read philosophy in the cold in a single bed.  For a while more.

Where Am I?

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