There

February 28, 2012 § Leave a comment

just wanting to disengage from stuff for a while – a long while – but without letting myself be under the impression that I will ever feel really young again, all that promising stuff, a change of scene isn’t going to do that it could actually be more work, more tiresome, more obvious that I have shrunk utterly, to four or five supposed skills and whatever outward evidence of  lifestyle can

back of my mind, sure it’s there, all those time he punched you words it’s impossible not to lug it around, you can settle it down in different ways, sure, but it’s in there; outcast, deformed, fat, dumb, it feels so real, so Realist,

hardly ever speaking, having little conversations with myself with little hand gestures sometimes, in the street, like a person with psychosis, people walk up behind you and see you doing it and it’s like, I sit here and I subtly alter my story since birth, every single day, alter it like wallpapering a patch over edges, it makes more edges.  Then I speak to mum, feeling a little better because we get on ok now but it’s there, always there, why, why, why did you

happening in real time, so it’s so avant-garde.  Yeah, like a circus.  Sometimes I can’t finish novels, I feel like I have read enough because I have understood the author in the first few pages.  I don’t need to know the events.  I can’t be bothered, ultimately, being limply mind fucked by a bloated icon.  Sometimes I think a book is just another duped man’s delusion, trying to capture cage all the birds, quick before I’m dead and the birds are still out there.  I have done the fucking.  There is a mind outside of the social world that others make,  the uncaged hypo thetical gender freak we hint

the only real relationship I have ever known.  And they kill you!  We all know that, but it’s some kind of embrace catching it in your throat, letting it part your lips and escape you into the dead world, there’s a blind there then – what do they call it?  A filter comes down.  Between you and the world.  It’s always there, it always does it, and my heart knows love I guess.  But I’m stopping it, totally, I did stop it but now totally, this time,  it’s just me and these red digits and my pounding unknown heart.  There

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Binning

February 20, 2012 § Leave a comment

I can’t throw anything away, it’s so horrible.  To start it all off, I did actually throw away my Converse all-star sneakers.  This was one of the more painless disposals I have executed, since I had been walking around in them for hours (more broadly, for years) with them torturing my feet with their thin, flat rubber soles.  They are precisely the sort of shoes that one should not wear, mainly as a child but actually, ever, and I admit I was drawn to them because they are relatively cheap and look effortlessly cool in a pathetic  pseudo-American campus chic kind of way.  Nor can I say that I have never before been drawn to stupid shoes – occasionally I will buy a pair that are so pointy that they appear disturbingly designed for some kind of insertion, often thinking that they will stretch to my foot with a “couple of wears”.  These shoes usually end up firstly, in my bag, then sitting around on a benchtop somewhere, stuffed with newspaper and reeking of fabric stretching spray as I desperately deny that I have once again been duped into purchasing a pair of absurd shoes that are not the shape of a human foot.  I mean, the idea of creating such a thing is just so removed from logic that one assumes it an impossibility.  My mother has bunions – I have no idea if these things are simply a freak occurrence or related to the wearing of such shoes, but I am not prepared to take the risk since feet are in my top ten most used body parts.  Anyway – Converse:  bad.  Or, Cons:  cons.  So I threw them in the bin quite decisively, and was further impressed with myself as I casually tossed a banana peel in after them, thus finalising the decision through eliminating the potential for clean retrieval .  Then I obviously had to start shopping for a new pair of sneakers, and in order to do this I had to delve into THE BAG, which is a collection of house shit that I have managed to hide from my conscious mind by stuffing it into a bag and chucking it behind some other stuff.  In here is, broadly, things I intend to sell, including beloved clothing from various eras of my life, and my Norton Anthologies of English Literature which I paid upwards of $300 for when I was an undergrad and kind of always resented since it felt like some big book conspiracy where I was trapped into buying into the industry we were basically feeding.  Often we only referred to one or two poems out of a $45 text and we all know that when I live on baked beans and noodles I get a visit from the fart fairy.  But then, poised on the brink of ridding myself of these horrible things forever, I decided that I was in love with them, that I would not sell them but would BUY the only one I do not have in order to create a lovely memento set.  For some reason I feel that my knowledge of the chronology of literature in world history is related somehow to actually having these books.  No, the internet is not the same, because it is flat, and in order to understand time I have to see space.  I don’t know, what if I NEED them, what if I lose part of my brain by throwing them away?  What if I wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and overtaken with painful regret, swamped in a predicament which could be solved by a perusal not just of that edition of the Anthology, but OF THAT VERY COPY?

 

No, books should be kept  forever.  Which leaves me with the dilemma of the sneakers.  Remember the banana – I can’t swing the whole scenario into reverse without doing cleaning.  There has got to be an alternative.  Australia does not pay for donations of blood or plasma, which disappoints me.  I know I should feel compelled to do this out of kindness and maybe I will some day but at the moment, all energy must be focused on one outcome, like an insulated particle accelerator lunging for the final Olympic tape.  I periodically do marketing research for companies, but this isn’t regular and I’m not exactly their target audience.  Poor, communist and inactive, I am unlikely to do anything even on the basis of extraordinary marketing, unless of course it’s related to pointy shoes.   So, I don’t know.  It’s a dilemma.  Getting some sort of part time work has been impossible with a full time study load.  The adult industry is basically out of the question.  I would be the worst prostitute in the history of the world.  I’m one of those people who only does well in a subject if I have some kind of genuine affection for the teacher.  Otherwise, even if I want to do well in the subject, I seem to inadvertently produce an assignment which reads “here it is, cunt features – you couldn’t be bothered, neither can I.”  In other words, I am unable to pretend.  And mostly I hate being touched.  And men’s shit fucks me off – I remember forcing one of my boyfriends to play with my fat stomach because I wanted to see if it would shatter his notion of self.

 

The other problem is Sydney shopping.  I really hate it.  Sometimes I wonder why I live here – the space between “wanker” and “bogan” where “style” usually resides is taken up by fluoro-tart for the young, or depraved, shoulder-knotted, country casual generic middle aged shite.  Yet another reason to move to Melbourne.  Never dedicated to sense, I will now explain what the first reason is.  I can get from Melbourne to Adelaide AND BACK for $50.  It’s hard to tell what the future will hold, though, I love Sydney too.  I don’t like cold weather so in that respect Melbourne sucks.  Ah, yes, but the the point was – the clothes are better there.  More independent boutiques and op shops perhaps.   So I’m shopping online for sneakers and narrowly avoiding scam artists with tantalising knock off gear like a minesweeper.

Not much else going on.  I have been reading about so much murder and theoretical physics.  I was starting to get a bit worried about the murder, like maybe I’m weird and dissociative but probably this is more likely attributed to the physics.  I am genuinely disturbed by murder.  I once allowed a spider to live in my room on the provision that it did not do anything bad.  After a while, it crawled down in the night and got on me.  I woke up in time to foil whatever it was going to do, and while I was disturbed, because it betrayed me and I dislike spiders on me, I still did not kill it.  Possibly I was not clear enough about the terms of our relationship.  So I think I am just enjoying reading sensational crap and denying that soon I will need to work very hard – I promise I’ll let you know how that goes.

 

 

Forced

February 18, 2012 § Leave a comment

There is no poetry in me.  Believe it or not, I have to write a Creative Writing thesis.  Writing, speaking.  I have nothing to say.  There is no poetry in me.  Lately I have found a lot of calm in reading about hostile places – outer space or the bottom of the ocean.  Somewhere that would crush humans and their arrogance and their shit out of existence.  I am not good enough at mathematics to study space.  I am a poet in that respect, I see it as a gas, a gap between flesh and rock, a soup for our toys.  Not a bendy cosmic entity switching us around like newts in a pond.  Although I do feel like nothing.

 

Culture just seems too social for me.  In likelihood, I have run out of ideas because I hardly ever leave this room.  It’s just me and my tasteless food and my stuff dripping with memories of my stupid little life.  I have to remind myself that this is what I wanted, for really a very long time, and that I am lucky to be here at all.  This is kind of a culmination, so to speak.  So fucking lame.

 

I worry about the future, and what will happen after my parents die.  If we are together for too long, we argue, but they really love me in a way that has nothing to do with me.  This is what causes the arguments, but what also makes me feel like a have a home with them.  I think they are disappointed.  There is still something slightly gruesome about a single childless woman, either that or they think that perhaps I may have wanted something different and are sad for me.  I didn’t want anything different.  This is what I wanted.

 

Where Am I?

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