April 28, 2012 § Leave a comment
An additional post, since apparently I “sound really depressed”. I was fired from a job once for looking too depressed. It was one of the worst jobs I have ever had to do but still, losing it because customers were reporting that my mental breakdown was putting them off their food was a massive setback at the time. I was trying to get rent and bills paid, food bought, in Kingsford, a few months after the Rosebery house and the events that sent me into the street. Activity from moment to moment, and Jack Daniels, got me through the agonising hours; university seemed to have slipped from my grasp, possibly forever, due to my unstable living circumstances and changes in the welfare laws. And returning home just wasn’t an option. I was in the mindset at that time that I never, ever would, and I repeatedly promised myself that, sat sinister inside low clouds of tobacco, while my stomach seemed stalled and rusty with the sharp anxiety of survival. I might have said something dramatically puerile, but nonetheless true, such as: I would rather die, vomiting and delirious and slumped in some cranny over here than go back. To cunts.
And then I got fired. The shift manager, who was five years younger than me and looked like a face drawn on a cylinder, waited until I had finished cleaning the toilets and putting away the buckets and other gear before handing me my final money. I was particularly irked by this last detail since despite the jarring reality of being alone in a city in which I was now unemployed, my mind registered the lost opportunity to make a cursing, violent exit, such as I have always been intrigued to perform, and even more so at the establishment in question. I would have enjoyed tipping the mop water into their coat room, or perhaps being removed from the premises while offering loud offensive predictions about the genitalia of the licencee. I walked home across two suburbs and fell into bed with my envelope, but still didn’t manage any tears until two years later when I was slightly less set about the arms and shoulders like an iron relic from a dead regime; hard against every other class of human, and even harder, and colder, in the heart.
I was going to leave it there but I didn’t really address the original proposition. Whatever. I’m sleepy. Another time.
April 27, 2012 § Leave a comment
I’m considering going somewhere else. Somewhere anonymous. I just haven’t really enjoyed some of the completely understandable suggestions that this is an exercise in “Creative Writing” rather than the diary of one of the world’s strange, lost and tiny creatures. I wouldn’t mind just leaving something, message-in-a-bottle style, lingering in this fluid of indiscriminate genius and nonsense. Perhaps that’s a bit precious.
I don’t have much to add, either. I should be working. I tend to read shit on the internet and waste lots of time. As someone who is (therefore – ha) staring at a future in journalism I am perturbed at what passes for such; basically a shallow and thinly veiled incitement to the latent self-importance of this type of commenter:
“I knew a person once, and s/he was a dickhead who wanted to have money and didn’t care at all about working in retail/finance/recruitment, or any other responsibility to SOCIETY, ipso facto almost all people are like that: why won’t the government do something about dickheads instead of looking and sounding funny and working on boring policies that I don’t understand?”
Ah, some place to go. If I’m going to be a correspondent I need to have an opinion on The World I guess. I think our potential new leader Mr Romney may have the right idea actually – create your own holy land in the middle of fucking Missouri or wherever. The secret of peace and happiness: value something that nobody else could ever possibly want.
I’m really tired of writing. The culture of it. I just don’t think it’s good for me to be sitting in a room by myself scrutinising the finer points of my various emotional and psychological disjunctions, mining them for horror stories. Which is what I have been doing for years now. I’m always more upbeat when I’m on the move. I’m good at acting and debating. One of the best antidepressants is walking around taking interesting photos. I think I am compelled to do these things in some ways because I don’t really like myself physically – I’m just that driven to be outside myself, in the realm of the creative or the intellectual, because being there has a chemical benefit to my brain. And then this is why I find getting involved with men difficult because it feels like I am dragged down out of that world and into a perpetual circular conversation about my body vis-a-vis the bodies of everyone else. It gradually makes me sad, then bored. Then, as always, my brain makes better chemicals when I’m away from that. Don’t get me wrong: my favourite thing about my body (apart from my brain) is that it works. I regret smoking a lot, and one of my google vortices is: “damage recovery smoking how long”. I feel good in that respect – I never smoked much. Unfortunately after my first few years at uni I became extremely confused and just needed to sit and drink and smoke. I thought maybe for a few hours but it turned into more like four years. Academia didn’t seem particularly intelligent – that was one problem. Knowledgeable, yes, but the harder I worked at uni the more naive I felt I became, the difference between, I guess, doing what I am doing now and being in the extreme thick of life. Did I ever find it? Irvine Welsh has this line about going out in the city, everyone talking bullshit, convinced that real life is happening some where else. I got a pretty good slice.
Some days I wake up and feel full of purpose, like I know I have to spend the remainder of my time doing something for the natural world, and that doing that will put my petty troubles behind me; but then other days I can’t move for despair. I can’t see anything in human beings that leads me to believe we can hold back this juggernaut of death. The population will just keep getting bigger at the expense of other species and environments. All of this could lead into me talking about le dossier stupide, my thingy. My THESIS. It’s post-apocalyptic, that’s all I can tell you. That’s right, fantasies of mass destruction, and two minute noodles. MY LIFE.
So yeah, that was really boring.
April 13, 2012 § Leave a comment
I actually remember what it was like to never give death a second thought. I was, then, less myself and more the reason for a certain number of things, socially speaking – death as good as wouldn’t happen to me. It was all heightened by the fact that it would undoubtedly happen to almost everybody I knew first, and since I couldn’t imagine even that, I was clearly nice and safe. Death. We danced, and there was some casual nudity.
Whereas these days I associate it – death – closely with almost everything that I do. I eat vitamins and anti-oxidants in case they miraculously turn things around. I read because I need to mentally digest as much information as possible before the end (why, I can’t say. In case of regrets that may in future, but do not currently, exist, probably). I am beset with anxiety about time-based practicalities: money, care; what on Earth good am I, what have I got to trade? Sexuality reminds me of a sordid aspiration in which the failures (not failings) of two individuals are coldly reflected while they hurtle towards the inevitable, afraid and alone. Unlike the three I have just lived, the decades ahead of me will be ones of death and dying, and this when we were all just getting warmed up – my grandparents, my parents, then myself. I have never hated my body, neither, (a lie) yet it is about to fall into immense disrepair, eating at the collection of me, realistically, as if I never mattered – one event at a time. It kills in tiny little rows; I have seen it. It distracts the woman who serves me in the bank.
April 5, 2012 § Leave a comment
“Hell is other people.” – Jean-Paul Sartre
Of course, if it was five, ten years ago I would simply assume that he desperately wants to sleep with me, but I don’t know if I am capable of inciting hateful, obsessive lust in men any more. I remember having to cease a French class once because the teacher found my presence just that disturbing – my eyes habitually and innocently flicked to his head where there happened to be sparse (and from memory, curiously dyed) hair and he came over as if the tip of his spine might have begun to slip out through his arsehole; for the rest of the class I had to deal with a man who was trying not to burst into tears at work. He spent every lesson sadistically humiliating me in front of others and fawning praise on anyone who contradicted me, while he waged a private crusade against his crippling erection. It was all embarrassingly banal. I was never under the impression that it had anything to do with me personally – oh no – rather it was that in finally ringing up about those French lessons I crashed into a junction in time and space where a male sexual crisis was already in progress, and unfortunately also happened to be a rough approximation of the cause of that crisis. But like I said, this hasn’t happened for a while, and I don’t flatter myself that I’m still suffering from precisely this sort of trouble. So maybe I’m really not welcome, not capable; maybe it really is true.
The other type of person who has tormented me over the years falls broadly into the category of the dissatisfied, often menopausal woman who is slightly senior within a ludicrously fake environment and therefore has management delusions and needs the foil of a junior incompetent in order to justify her own existence. This situation is violently exacerbated if there is, in point of fact, no reason at all for this person’s existence – if, for example, the office is over-staffed owing to a swamp of lax and idiotic procedures, resulting in tasks being micro-categorised against a hypothetical gradient of difficulty in which the highest achievement of humankind is the ability to download clipart. This type of dynamic reeks of the petty ‘feminine’ and is reminiscent of the peasant family: seniority denotes Dealing With The Men, and usually comes as a result of either Being Older or Being There The Longest, and can justify such sly humiliations as commenting on the clothes and appearance or sexual and marital life of the younger women.
It is alarming how much abject misery can be caused by such situations. I have always maintained that while I do feel a real desire for something more, I essentially have no problem with short periods of dull work as long as I don’t have to cope with a noxious personality. Pulling beers or processing accounts will never lead to a more profound idea of oneself as a human (and perhaps this makes it more honest, since applying this antiquated yearning to such a system as work is profoundly corrupt) but is an acceptable way to pass the time if one does not have to masochistically take up professional idiocy to be of any specific use, or to at least forge the kind of non-resistive path that is the only real feature of that type of work, should it be found.
Then there is how it all takes on staggering personal significance in the middle of the night. A bitch at work can cause one to roll in the bedding writing mythologies of victimisation and casting oneself as the local turd. “I am born” it begins to seem “to stow my real thoughts at risk of them drying like mother’s milk, in order to become, from demented physical need, five or six different slaves.”
Well, there goes another day. I might want to get back to work, and stop proving my detractors so emphatically on the money. And oh yeah: I still can’t speak much French.