so tired. i'm going to eat toast then nap. later i'm heading out to see Amanda Palmer and the Danger Ensemble.
today i went to Macquarie where i'll start tutoring next week. i sat in on the lecture, i ate good salad (spinach, pear and goats cheese), i signed paperwork. i caught 3 trains there and 3 trains back. i walked a lot. i thought a lot about last night's text messages.
Paris sent me a text about our tentative meeting today, which now happens tomorrow. he was being flirtatious. this i liked, so i offered a flirtatious response. he asked if i'm looking forward to working with him. i said of course. he was in bed, playing with his iphone. i was making dessert (butterscotch self-saucing pudding). he said he'd like to try my dessert. i said maybe i'll bake for him one day. and then there was the proposition: 'dessert' on thursday. a midday trip to his house.
i showed jessie, confirmed that it was a proposition. i didn't know how to respond. i said we could talk about it thursday. tomorrow.
i've been having fantasies about him for some months, but all of a sudden i'm seeing a big red flashing Danger sign. he's married to my boss. he's technically my supervisor (though only for a month or so). these things make the fantasy more fantastic. but now that it's there for the taking, i'm trying to re-think. i want it but i don't. i know it's likely to have a bad outcome. what if the sex is bad? what about his partner? does he know? what about our colleagues, if they find out? i have two more years at the centre, so i'd rather not sour my relationships there.
i've decided that there'll be no sex tomorrow. maybe when my work for him is complete. that's the sensible thing to do. maybe it'll never happen, which would be even more sensible.
but i hate sensible. i want my body to lead me where it will, experience things, take risks, discard any notion of what's proper or sensible or in the best interests of all involved. thinking about it on the train brought arousal. a slight erection, a quickened pulse, heat. a song on my ipod is all bang and clatter. i want it. and because it's so wrong, i want it more.
i try to imagine sex with him, and i really can't. as a fantasy, there has been no contemplation of his body pressed into mine. his body beneath clothes forms the outline of my desire. as do his touches, his smile, and the brush of his face against mine as we kiss cheeks. beyond this, i cannot imagine. to think of him naked is not arousing. nor is the image of us fucking. maybe all i need is his touch, his subtle affections. moments from which to project my fantasies, which of course, do not involve his participation.
and then what? after fucking, where would i take this? the fantasy would die. maybe that's a good thing. but it will be missed.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
yesterday's train
It’s 7.30am on the train to Sydney. To home. I’m still not used to thinking of Sydney as home. Particularly when I’m on riding this line that for many years has been a visit to the city.
Contemplating the week ahead. And the weekend just gone. Some good times and some bad.
Thinking of C again. I was just listening to Aimee Mann. I wish I could get beyond that. But he introduced me to her, and also, she sounds like us. Songs about good things turned sour. Pain, discomfort, loss. I feel that we’re not yet over. I feel that there may be another chapter. But this scares me and I don’t want it. Except I do. But I know it will end as another Aimee Mann narrative. And I’ll forever be singing our song in mournful tones.
Now I listen to Bananarama’s True Confessions. My music. Still wistful songs, but these belong to me, my past, my current train ride on the early morning Central Coast.
I finally got confirmation of my PhD upgrade. I forgot to tell anybody. But most people think I’m doing a PhD anyway. Myself included. It’s just nice to have that in writing though.
Another two years on my project is both comforting and frightening. I need this time to get where I want to go. But already there are so many temptations to stray. There are more zines I can make, more stories to tell, more places to travel, more fun to be had. I find it hard to focus on one thing. I always want more.
Contemplating the week ahead. And the weekend just gone. Some good times and some bad.
Thinking of C again. I was just listening to Aimee Mann. I wish I could get beyond that. But he introduced me to her, and also, she sounds like us. Songs about good things turned sour. Pain, discomfort, loss. I feel that we’re not yet over. I feel that there may be another chapter. But this scares me and I don’t want it. Except I do. But I know it will end as another Aimee Mann narrative. And I’ll forever be singing our song in mournful tones.
Now I listen to Bananarama’s True Confessions. My music. Still wistful songs, but these belong to me, my past, my current train ride on the early morning Central Coast.
I finally got confirmation of my PhD upgrade. I forgot to tell anybody. But most people think I’m doing a PhD anyway. Myself included. It’s just nice to have that in writing though.
Another two years on my project is both comforting and frightening. I need this time to get where I want to go. But already there are so many temptations to stray. There are more zines I can make, more stories to tell, more places to travel, more fun to be had. I find it hard to focus on one thing. I always want more.
Friday, February 20, 2009
being blah
i'm having one of those mini meltdowns. when it's all too hard to orchestrate.
the couch is being delivered today. i don't know when. i may not be here. i may not have anyone to help me lift it up the stairs. i don't have a phone number to call the delivery people.
i have to go to work.
i feel as though i need to study. in fact, i told A i'd have something to send her by today.
i have to find the course coordinator who potentially has tutorial work for me. she's vague and won't call me, always says she's busy, makes it my job to find her. i'm starting to hate her already.
i have to get to newcastle. it's so far away.
i'd like to swim. in fact, i need to swim. i felt so good early in the week - was it about the swimming, or all the studying i did? probably both.
my hard-drive appears not to be working. i have no idea why.
maybe the couch can wait til monday.
i've spent a few nights alone in the house, feeling a bit down and friendless - undoubtably resulting in my current state. i know i have friends, but too much time alone can make me question this. though i need alone-time too, so the opposite scenario (a busy schedule) stresses me out as well. people are busy, schedules don't match up, and here i am, feeling the dreaded pinch of solitude (as opposed to the glorious embrace of solitude). though there's some of that mixed in there too.
and at these moments i self-blame - why haven't i done a better job of maintaining friendships? why did i arrive at this point, again? why can't i be a better friend, with better organisational skills and foresight?
it will pass.
newcastle will be good. time with mark and V and others will be good. a swim in salt water will refresh me.
the couch is being delivered today. i don't know when. i may not be here. i may not have anyone to help me lift it up the stairs. i don't have a phone number to call the delivery people.
i have to go to work.
i feel as though i need to study. in fact, i told A i'd have something to send her by today.
i have to find the course coordinator who potentially has tutorial work for me. she's vague and won't call me, always says she's busy, makes it my job to find her. i'm starting to hate her already.
i have to get to newcastle. it's so far away.
i'd like to swim. in fact, i need to swim. i felt so good early in the week - was it about the swimming, or all the studying i did? probably both.
my hard-drive appears not to be working. i have no idea why.
maybe the couch can wait til monday.
i've spent a few nights alone in the house, feeling a bit down and friendless - undoubtably resulting in my current state. i know i have friends, but too much time alone can make me question this. though i need alone-time too, so the opposite scenario (a busy schedule) stresses me out as well. people are busy, schedules don't match up, and here i am, feeling the dreaded pinch of solitude (as opposed to the glorious embrace of solitude). though there's some of that mixed in there too.
and at these moments i self-blame - why haven't i done a better job of maintaining friendships? why did i arrive at this point, again? why can't i be a better friend, with better organisational skills and foresight?
it will pass.
newcastle will be good. time with mark and V and others will be good. a swim in salt water will refresh me.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
three coffee day
This morning I sipped latté in a Newtown side street with Jessie. Neither of us could figure out today's 9-letter word.
I rode the bus past uni, got off in Randwick, got another coffee at Bar Coluzzi. This time espresso, with a muffin, while I continued reading Foucault's The Use of Pleasure. I'm taking my supervisor's advise and burying myself in a key text, so reading about the concept of enkrateia (self-mastery) in Greek antiquity. I make notes in purple ink, from a chewed pen that somehow fell into my possession.
I walk to uni and type up my notes, redrafting my sketchy beginnings of chapter two. I feel like things are happening. Construction is beginning. It's nice.
I chat with my study neighbour about being a disciplined reader, my instructions to stop slutting my way through secondary texts. She can relate to the joys (and frustrations) of losing yourself in multiple theories.
But now it's Foucault. All week. And probably next week too.
I meet with Paris (not his real name). He says he may have some research work for me. Just a little. I'm not keen on the project. However, I'm keen on him. So I have an urge to say yes. It's only a small role after all. And I could listen to his accent for days. We come from different academic pages though, and I feel that I shouldn't like him. A stupid fantasy tied to my dreams of that place. He kisses me hello and buys me coffee. He orders two soy lattés
Me: Do you have soy?
He: No, but I thought I would try it.
And so my crush remains.
On the way home I read from Jessie's copy of Strange Museums, by Fiona McGregor. I'm falling into the text with ease. It's a beautiful glide through stories from Poland - a Poland of her travels, and a Poland of her now (her memories, connections, and ongoing research). This is her Poland, and doesn't try to be anyone else's. But it's a place I can connect with nonetheless. It seems to be about violence, in a broad sense, both historical and personal. I got off the bus and bought my own copy. The woman in the bookshop scanned it, said it looked interesting, smiled and made eye contact, said goodbye.
The man in the next shop didn't know what I meant when I asked for the Bruce La Bruce box set in the window. He went and looked, recognised that it was kept behind the counter, emphatically said 'Bruce La Bruce!', and found me a copy. He told me that he'd now learnt something new today. He congratulated me on not needing a bag, gave a pleasant goodbye.
Shopkeepers are my friends today. Perhaps I'm giving off nice vibes.
I rode the bus past uni, got off in Randwick, got another coffee at Bar Coluzzi. This time espresso, with a muffin, while I continued reading Foucault's The Use of Pleasure. I'm taking my supervisor's advise and burying myself in a key text, so reading about the concept of enkrateia (self-mastery) in Greek antiquity. I make notes in purple ink, from a chewed pen that somehow fell into my possession.
I walk to uni and type up my notes, redrafting my sketchy beginnings of chapter two. I feel like things are happening. Construction is beginning. It's nice.
I chat with my study neighbour about being a disciplined reader, my instructions to stop slutting my way through secondary texts. She can relate to the joys (and frustrations) of losing yourself in multiple theories.
But now it's Foucault. All week. And probably next week too.
I meet with Paris (not his real name). He says he may have some research work for me. Just a little. I'm not keen on the project. However, I'm keen on him. So I have an urge to say yes. It's only a small role after all. And I could listen to his accent for days. We come from different academic pages though, and I feel that I shouldn't like him. A stupid fantasy tied to my dreams of that place. He kisses me hello and buys me coffee. He orders two soy lattés
Me: Do you have soy?
He: No, but I thought I would try it.
And so my crush remains.
On the way home I read from Jessie's copy of Strange Museums, by Fiona McGregor. I'm falling into the text with ease. It's a beautiful glide through stories from Poland - a Poland of her travels, and a Poland of her now (her memories, connections, and ongoing research). This is her Poland, and doesn't try to be anyone else's. But it's a place I can connect with nonetheless. It seems to be about violence, in a broad sense, both historical and personal. I got off the bus and bought my own copy. The woman in the bookshop scanned it, said it looked interesting, smiled and made eye contact, said goodbye.
The man in the next shop didn't know what I meant when I asked for the Bruce La Bruce box set in the window. He went and looked, recognised that it was kept behind the counter, emphatically said 'Bruce La Bruce!', and found me a copy. He told me that he'd now learnt something new today. He congratulated me on not needing a bag, gave a pleasant goodbye.
Shopkeepers are my friends today. Perhaps I'm giving off nice vibes.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
fair day
yesterday was fair day. i was tempted to go as i've not been before. but it rained, so i chose not to.
J said she drove past and felt very un-gay. S ended up going - said it was a nice crowd. i asked P if he went and he didn't even know what it is. he's not out, lives in the outer suburbs with his parents. he's one of my internet friends.
last night i chatted to A from istanbul. another person i'm yet to meet. but we chatted on cam, and i was a bit smitten by his beauty. dark features and a cheeky smile. he was in a net cafe. he wants me to find him a job in australia. he is currently jobless and computerless and therefore living at home. he's 25.
we flirted and he said he wished he was lying in the bed next to me. but i suspect my attraction is entwined with my location, my wealth, my ability to do many things that he cannot.
J said she drove past and felt very un-gay. S ended up going - said it was a nice crowd. i asked P if he went and he didn't even know what it is. he's not out, lives in the outer suburbs with his parents. he's one of my internet friends.
last night i chatted to A from istanbul. another person i'm yet to meet. but we chatted on cam, and i was a bit smitten by his beauty. dark features and a cheeky smile. he was in a net cafe. he wants me to find him a job in australia. he is currently jobless and computerless and therefore living at home. he's 25.
we flirted and he said he wished he was lying in the bed next to me. but i suspect my attraction is entwined with my location, my wealth, my ability to do many things that he cannot.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
i love a sunburnt narrative
sydney people are pretending to be from melbourne. the weather drops below 20 degrees (but only just, it's currently 18) and people wear heavy coats and scarves. well, some people. and it's ridiculous. it's warm in my 2 layers of thin cotton.
the sydney morning herald is pornographic in its coverage of the victorian fires. it makes me feel ill. it makes me wish i still believed in objective journalism.
the language is loaded with nationalistic rhetoric of fighting for survival against the 'hellfire'. yes, the anzac spirit lives on. in journalism at least. and perhaps everywhere, if people are getting off on this reportage. which i think maybe they are. otherwise there'd be alternative narratives and more criticism, right? though maybe there's not much space for criticism these days.
the fire is not a fire, but a hellfire. journalists are ranting about how much we love our country despite it being so cruel and relentless. it's all very dorothea mackellar:
Her beauty and her terror -
The wide brown land for me.
the facts are sad without all this idealogical porn that seems more interested in projecting certain nationalist fantasies than informing people about what's happening.
The names make the enormity of the loss all the more real to an uncomprehending nation.
SMH recounts the names, ages, occupations, and family situations of the dead. SMH is writing the first draft of the inevitable miniseries. and a gripping tale it will be:
TOWNS have been declared crime scenes, and the death toll in Victoria's bushfires could top 200 as the grisly search for bodies continues in communities that were wiped out.
the metaphor of crime scene, like that of terrorism, bombing and war zones are present on every page and by-line, pointing to the 'cruel injustice' of it all. the 'unfathomable' events resulting in the loss of 'innocent lives'.
what the fuck is an innocent victim anyway? argh. shut the fuck up!
just now, wading through the SMH files (i feel so dirty) i found this story opening with:
AUSTRALIANS have watched in disbelieving horror as nature stripped away the nation's clothing of civilisation, leaving great swathes of this wide brown land a blackened ground zero.
This was Australia's greatest natural disaster, and the date on which the fires raged into an inferno - February 7, 2009 - will be marked on the nation's calendar of grief, perhaps like April 25.
i feel nauseous. and angry. when i should be feeling sad.
the sydney morning herald is pornographic in its coverage of the victorian fires. it makes me feel ill. it makes me wish i still believed in objective journalism.
the language is loaded with nationalistic rhetoric of fighting for survival against the 'hellfire'. yes, the anzac spirit lives on. in journalism at least. and perhaps everywhere, if people are getting off on this reportage. which i think maybe they are. otherwise there'd be alternative narratives and more criticism, right? though maybe there's not much space for criticism these days.
the fire is not a fire, but a hellfire. journalists are ranting about how much we love our country despite it being so cruel and relentless. it's all very dorothea mackellar:
Her beauty and her terror -
The wide brown land for me.
the facts are sad without all this idealogical porn that seems more interested in projecting certain nationalist fantasies than informing people about what's happening.
The names make the enormity of the loss all the more real to an uncomprehending nation.
SMH recounts the names, ages, occupations, and family situations of the dead. SMH is writing the first draft of the inevitable miniseries. and a gripping tale it will be:
TOWNS have been declared crime scenes, and the death toll in Victoria's bushfires could top 200 as the grisly search for bodies continues in communities that were wiped out.
the metaphor of crime scene, like that of terrorism, bombing and war zones are present on every page and by-line, pointing to the 'cruel injustice' of it all. the 'unfathomable' events resulting in the loss of 'innocent lives'.
what the fuck is an innocent victim anyway? argh. shut the fuck up!
just now, wading through the SMH files (i feel so dirty) i found this story opening with:
AUSTRALIANS have watched in disbelieving horror as nature stripped away the nation's clothing of civilisation, leaving great swathes of this wide brown land a blackened ground zero.
This was Australia's greatest natural disaster, and the date on which the fires raged into an inferno - February 7, 2009 - will be marked on the nation's calendar of grief, perhaps like April 25.
i feel nauseous. and angry. when i should be feeling sad.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
i'm here
these vita-wheat grain snacks are quite addictive. my tongue prickles with pepper. certainly not as tasty as the falafel roll i had from man-oosh a little earlier. the best one since marseille. even without secret 'sauce blanche'.
a beautiful weekend was had. now mark's on the train home. and i'm on the couch. we watched impressive films (the wrestler, the class), ate good food, swam with fishes, climbed rocky cliffs, sweated, and more.
now i listen to the new natacha atlas album to help decide if i go to melbourne to see her. i'm not yet convinced. but it's my first listen, track 3, ana hina (i'm here).
it's strange for this house to be so quiet. i look forward to it being peopled again. though a little quiet was nice for a few days. now i'm feeling uncertain about tonight and what to do. watch a film? go to bed early? waste hours online? i probably should read.
someone told me i seemed really settled in my new home. and it's true. i am.
this week we talk to prospective housemates. i'm uncomfortable that so many people i know are interested in the room, and that we'll have some sort of interview process whereby we meet them, then discuss and select, telling the non-chosen that we don't want them. just as well it's not my decision alone. rejection is bad, even if it's not actually rejection, and even if i'm not the rejected.
song 6 is nice. la vida callada. the quiet life.
a beautiful weekend was had. now mark's on the train home. and i'm on the couch. we watched impressive films (the wrestler, the class), ate good food, swam with fishes, climbed rocky cliffs, sweated, and more.
now i listen to the new natacha atlas album to help decide if i go to melbourne to see her. i'm not yet convinced. but it's my first listen, track 3, ana hina (i'm here).
it's strange for this house to be so quiet. i look forward to it being peopled again. though a little quiet was nice for a few days. now i'm feeling uncertain about tonight and what to do. watch a film? go to bed early? waste hours online? i probably should read.
someone told me i seemed really settled in my new home. and it's true. i am.
this week we talk to prospective housemates. i'm uncomfortable that so many people i know are interested in the room, and that we'll have some sort of interview process whereby we meet them, then discuss and select, telling the non-chosen that we don't want them. just as well it's not my decision alone. rejection is bad, even if it's not actually rejection, and even if i'm not the rejected.
song 6 is nice. la vida callada. the quiet life.
Friday, February 6, 2009
past me
i was going to continue my last post, but i'm past that now.
i was going to talk more about my blog hiatus, but that's gone too.
interesting that i discussed a me of the past, when yesterday i should receive an email from one such me. a message posted to Future Me one year ago:
When you wrote this you were waiting for Mark to get home from work so you could start cooking dinner. You were hungry. And bored. You didn't swim today because it was too rainy. But you confirmed your second supervisor. You'll probably meet her in a week from now. Hopefully things are going well there. Did you make the right choice? Will you upgrade?
i was also at Thorn St. i guess i didn't feel the need to talk about that because at the time Thorn St felt like it would always exist. yes, things are going well 'there', i feel as though i made the right choice. i upgraded.
Hopefully you're in a new city when you read this. You've been a bit down about this place and wanting to leave. Hopefully you're happy and focussed and still very much in love.
Happy: Yes. Focused: Kind of. In love: Yes.
How was France? Are you going back? When?
I hope you're wasting less time online. Focus focus focus. You always were a bit down on yourself for lacking discipline and focus. Hopefully things are okay there.
hmm... i guess my obsession with being focused and disciplined is not such a new thing. i'm always chastising myself about being disciplined. i constantly attempt new routines and 'healthy' gestures to be a better student/researcher. never satisfied. probably very boring for those around me.
Still swimming? If not, go for a swim today. You love it. It makes you feel great, keeps you balanced. Or maybe you have a new technique for this now. Do you?
no new technique. i still swim. and i did swim yesterday after i read this. and it did make me feel good. though a little sore as well, because i'm out of practice.
Do you still drink coffee in the morning, with a book and toast with jam?
indeed i do. but the coffee is shorter. and the bread is different.
i guess not a lot changes in a year. except it does.
i was also going to write about the old lady falling over at the bus stop today. but maybe that can wait til next time. i'm at work. i want to go to the beach. or home. or somewhere to buy a coffee.
i was going to talk more about my blog hiatus, but that's gone too.
interesting that i discussed a me of the past, when yesterday i should receive an email from one such me. a message posted to Future Me one year ago:
When you wrote this you were waiting for Mark to get home from work so you could start cooking dinner. You were hungry. And bored. You didn't swim today because it was too rainy. But you confirmed your second supervisor. You'll probably meet her in a week from now. Hopefully things are going well there. Did you make the right choice? Will you upgrade?
i was also at Thorn St. i guess i didn't feel the need to talk about that because at the time Thorn St felt like it would always exist. yes, things are going well 'there', i feel as though i made the right choice. i upgraded.
Hopefully you're in a new city when you read this. You've been a bit down about this place and wanting to leave. Hopefully you're happy and focussed and still very much in love.
Happy: Yes. Focused: Kind of. In love: Yes.
How was France? Are you going back? When?
I hope you're wasting less time online. Focus focus focus. You always were a bit down on yourself for lacking discipline and focus. Hopefully things are okay there.
hmm... i guess my obsession with being focused and disciplined is not such a new thing. i'm always chastising myself about being disciplined. i constantly attempt new routines and 'healthy' gestures to be a better student/researcher. never satisfied. probably very boring for those around me.
Still swimming? If not, go for a swim today. You love it. It makes you feel great, keeps you balanced. Or maybe you have a new technique for this now. Do you?
no new technique. i still swim. and i did swim yesterday after i read this. and it did make me feel good. though a little sore as well, because i'm out of practice.
Do you still drink coffee in the morning, with a book and toast with jam?
indeed i do. but the coffee is shorter. and the bread is different.
i guess not a lot changes in a year. except it does.
i was also going to write about the old lady falling over at the bus stop today. but maybe that can wait til next time. i'm at work. i want to go to the beach. or home. or somewhere to buy a coffee.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
imperceptibility
i didn't go to work today. but the guilt didn't last long. i started to read deleuze (on foucault). i think i'm becoming a deleuzian. or a deleuzian kristevan. or maybe my allegiance need not be defined in such a way. maybe i'm just a fan with multiple allegiances.
my blog hiatus was a result of multiple changes and re-thinkings.
one concern involves my availability of self to others - in the sense that i'm uncertain i want to be available through my fleeting words placed into zines and blogs. i've read things about myself that seem odd. i don't know how to feel. the easiest option is to retreat and become 'private'. not that i have such a public presence. but when i re-read my words of 10 years ago in something published yesterday, it's uncomfortable. those words were not meant for now. the tension that enabled them is no longer with me. i'm not that person. and that person has my name. my full name there on the page. i'm reduced to a person knowable through texts that i thought were long gone, discarded, the product of another world.
time to run. more later.
my blog hiatus was a result of multiple changes and re-thinkings.
one concern involves my availability of self to others - in the sense that i'm uncertain i want to be available through my fleeting words placed into zines and blogs. i've read things about myself that seem odd. i don't know how to feel. the easiest option is to retreat and become 'private'. not that i have such a public presence. but when i re-read my words of 10 years ago in something published yesterday, it's uncomfortable. those words were not meant for now. the tension that enabled them is no longer with me. i'm not that person. and that person has my name. my full name there on the page. i'm reduced to a person knowable through texts that i thought were long gone, discarded, the product of another world.
time to run. more later.
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