Saturday, July 19, 2008

neither here nor there

yesterday i went to coogee and had an urge to write. but it was short lived. i only got as far as:

"I've been to Coogee. I need not come back. Though maybe I'll come back here to sit on this rock. My place on the edge of Coogee. By the sea. Where the wind pushes away the sounds of Coogee."

i started the day slowly. in bed until after noon. unsure of what i might do. where i might go. fatigued. i'd been promising myself a walk to the beach, so that would be my task. and some grocery shopping.

i walked up and down hills to find the ocean. so many houses and apartments but no sign of life. where are the shops, cafes, and services that coogee people make use of?

i found the ocean, and it was quite spectacular. i then set out for breakfast and coffee. the food was rather good, but tainted by the staff who were abrupt and without smiles. i'm reading about the foreigner (kristeva) and i am that foreigner. i am feeling insignificant and without voice. lost and incomplete. i eat, drink, and read some more. it is here that i get an urge to write.

but the pencil stops short, on my rock. and the voices of tourists distract me (why sit near me? get your own goddam fucking space). i hate. another trait of kristeva's foreigner. and i internalise this hatred, for i lack the foundations from which to speak it. so i read some more. then walk away, back to randwick.

my fragility continued throughout the day until i booked my ticket to france. 6 weeks abroad. 12 weeks from now.

kristeva writes:

"Nowhere is one more a foreigner than in France" (p38).

"And yet, one is nowhere better as a foreigner than in France. Since you remain uncurably different and unacceptable, you are an object of fascination: one notices you, one talks about you, one hates you or admires you, or both at the same time" (p39).

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

strangers to ourselves

i just started reading kristeva's strangers to ourselves once again, and this time it's making sense. i'm applying a kristevan reading (outside traditional logic, open to ambiguity) and it seems to work. it's a blend of psychoanalysis and social theory, a comment upon the dangers of nationalism as much as it looks at subjectivity as formed by otherness. the foreigner is in ourselves. there is no clear line between the foreigner (the outsider, the other, the stranger) and our own subjectivity. and yet, the foreigner is somewhat mobilised by its liminal status - neither here nor there, and unflinching in her/his non-commitment to place. the foreigner is me.

i see much of myself in the section titled Meeting. me in melbourne last year, me in sydney now. me as foreigner. the me explored in previous blogs.

"Meeting balances wondering. A crossroad of two othernesses, it welcomes the foreigner without tying him down, opening the host to his visitor without committing him. A mutual recognition, the meeting owes its success to its temporary nature, and it would be torn by conflicts if it were to be extended. The foreign believer is incorrigibly curious, eager for meetings: he is nourished by them, makes his way through them, forever unsatisfied..." (p11)

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

still moving

lately i haven't felt much like writing about myself. or i have, but it has always passed. it's been a strange few weeks - a time that might be good to capture here. but one that is also gone. i prefer to write about today.

the cold air, my weary eyes, the snacks i just ate for dinner. time to leave my library home soon. but yet to complete my task (a thesis chapter outline). instead i message friends on facebook.

facebook is a reminder that i still have friends. most of them i never see. partly my fault, but mostly due to circumstances. i've been preoccupied with nutting out my new parameters - where i live, work, play, and how my relationship with mark can accommodate this, or not. at the end of these few weeks, it seems it can.

the anger felt at the corner of crown and cleveland streets is gone. but i remember my breathing, my near explosion. and i move on. and away.

so much for writing about now.

randwick is nice. i feel very comfortable there. the balcony off the kitchen is where i read in the morning sun, with toast and coffee. the bedroom is filled with books and fabrics and new things to notice each day when i wake. this morning i noticed a shelf of lanterns, all different colours. there are many books on the bedhead that i also own. i like this familiarity. this connection. i like my window views, the streets i walk to get to uni, the deli at royal randwick plaza, the music that guides me through these streets.

and in a couple of weeks i'll be getting used to a new home and new neighbourhood. new people with new things to live amongst. i'm looking at potential homes on thursday.