Saturday, February 27, 2010

missing him

mardi gras parade is on tonight. i'm not going. i thought i might go out post-parade, but feeling a bit clouded over today, so the best thing is probably to stay in. i've so far not left the house, despite a feeble attempt to get to the supermarket. i think i'll get there eventually. i think i'll purchase comfort from those aisles, rather than an overcrowded bar on oxford st this evening.

food. books. the smiths. and i really should be working on my thesis. but i'm bored by thesis. given the chance i'll probably go out and get wasted. but until then, i'll pretend i'm not interested.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

families, phone calls, death

my phone rang before 9am. it was mum. i knew it probably meant that someone was dead.

her voice wavered. my cousin lost his boy who would be 3 in august. he choked on an apple. her voice wavered. i didn't know what to say. it was a short conversation. my cousin called his mum (and she called my mum). "he tried to get it out." i thought she meant the words, to tell his mum that her grandson (his son) was dead. but she meant the apple. there was an ambulance. there was a death. there were scenes created in my imagination of screams and tears and phone voices choking on sadness. "i thought i better let you know. good bye." and mum was gone. an abrupt ending. was i not sad enough? did i say the right things? did she need to leave to cry?

i didn't know the boy that would be 3 in august. he was a twin. this brings more imaginative drama to the situation. a story, some film, where the protagonist has a dead twin so is forever incomplete. and i feel sad for the twin. but also for my cousin and his family. and also for my mum. because that child (also unknown to her) is a child that she undoubtedly thinks could have been her own grandchild. she could be the one making that call to her sister-in-law, who would then pass it on to the cousin (her son), spreading the news through the capillaries of the family.

my mum keeps a family tree. she found some computer software on which to do this. she also keeps a calendar with the birthdays and wedding anniversaries of every cousin, in-law, and blood relative. i don't know the child's name but it'll be there, somewhere in august.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

quiet, sleepy

sitting today at my desk in a new (postgrad) space, but one that houses about 8 desks instead of 40-something. it's empty of people now, except me. there's no aircon, but the open windows bring sounds of people outside.

there's a long, dark, too-wide hallway between me and the kitchen. walls are red. it was a journey to go and make this coffee.

i'm slightly basking in the afterglow of finishing my lit review task yesterday, but also slightly melancholic, probably due to my tiredness. i want to go and see bowie films tonight, but maybe it ain't gonna happen. the coffee has not woken me. choosing these words is not easy. maybe i just need to sleep. a bath. a novel.

i need to phone that person to tell her we gave the room to someone else. but i can't be arsed. i looked on facebook to see who might be up for bowie, but that made me grumpy. too many people putting on their shows. too much noise. shut the fuck up.

and i feel in need of company from people who don't live in my city. wanting the impossible.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

writing Jay-Z without a pen



Okay, so I'm supposed to be working or studying but I can't stop listening to Jay-Z. Last night I downloaded The Blueprint 3 and I'm quite in awe. I've never been a huge fan of rap, aside from a late flirtation with Public Enemy, and then some more recent stuff, like Missy Elliott and M.I.A. It was Beyoncé who first brought me to Jay-Z. And it was Empire State of Mind that got me over the line. And Mother, I can never come home again.

I think it's the combination of this music that drills into me, the stories being told, and the soothing qualities of his voice. But I can't really be sure. But I do know that I want to talk about and reference this music at every available opportunity. Not that it's his music. It's mine. I downloaded it.

He picks me up, he takes me into his arms, he sings me a beautiful anthem. And then he sings another.

He drops references to all and everything, evoking memories of things and places and other sounds that have punctuated my life. I'm reminded of Spice Girls, Bananarama, A-Ha, films, news footage, things that someone once said... Each song is an archival dig into my own small history. And he knows this - "Hold your applause, this is your song not mine" (Thank You). He writes like a thief - is it tribute or willful plagiarism? Is he a dirty coloniser, taking everything as though he owns it?:



Who's gonna run this town tonight? "We are. yeah i said it, we are!" It's Public Enemy number two. "All black everything." And it's old-friend Rihanna back for more, with Kanye stepping in for an interlude. They pass the baton as the guitar squarks its riff. Hardly Chuck D and Flava Flav, but that's okay. They're still there, still here, and the video is a nice homage. To this and so much more. It's anarchy chic. The song, the image, the culmination of history (and colour) thrusts a fist in the air that says "We run this". It's about breaking the rules and not caring for the consequences. It's about the energy of one's anger and passions rising to the surface, like a slow-building chorus, and the potential rise of a black army.

But my white arse is not immune to such sentiment. I have plenty of 'fuck you' within me, just below the surface, waiting for some trigger like this. And I wanna break some rules too. And I push myself forward, into fantasy, into the limbs of mouths of this video, and I run this town tonight. And in my town I can spit words at certain people and things and institutions that try to tell me otherwise. And I can encourage others to do the same. Because it's about 'we' not 'I', and that's one of the many beauties of this song. And then Kanye says "What you think i rap for? To push a fuckin' Rav4?" And at this point I'm dizzy with joy.

But that's not all. The album closes with more stolen goods. Jay-Z takes Forever Young and turns it around. Except he doesn't, because it's the same. He just inserts a few raps within the body of an existing text. He interrupts and shares more soft words into which I can escape the dredge or my desk life:



And it's about his immortality. Because "We live a life like a video. Where the sun is always out, and you never get old, and the champagne’s always cold, and the music's always good." And here I am watching videos, listening to music, writing things on facebook... Just this morning I contemplated changing my profile picture to a younger version on me. I found a photo of me with long hair pulled up but falling down the back of my neck. I forgot that version of me. I forget what it feels like to be cross-legged on the floor, hands on laptop, cat on lap, and a bunch of hair sliding down my face. And I think I'll post it now. Young forever.

And it does feel like my life is a series of websites, songs, images, and pop culture references. And Jay-Z helps me to paint that life for myself. And my consumerism is less about money shifting hands than images and sounds painting a portrait of who I am. Or who I might be.

"And it never ends, cos all we have to do is hit rewind."

And that's not all. What's unsurprising is that my love and fascination with Jay-Z is happening alongside my love and fascination with Bruce Springsteen. These stories overlap. The sounds might be different, but the sentiments tap into a larger narrative of self and place and loss and desire. The angry man is a small scared boy. And he's gonna run this town tonight. Or maybe he's going to flee this town, taking the highway jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive.

And there's room in my life for many Springsteens and Jay-Zs. And these songs are mine not theirs, so I must hold my applause. Though always the avid fanboy, it's difficult for me not to sing the praises of my beautiful messengers.

Bruce sings about his hometown. He travels between "my hometown" and "your hometown". It's me and it's him, and it's all of us thinking about where we're from. It's a Jay-Z moment of transference, and it doesn't matter who did it first. It's a passage that pre-exists their music and the birth of us all. And it's a connect that draws me (and you) into the narrative of a desire to remember. It's a story that only exists in its being felt. It's a facsimile where the receiver and sender are one and the same. The song is a transportation back to self. And particularly the song that sings about 'place'. Because place is what we move from and to and between. Memory is a pocketful of place. Jay-Z tells me so:

Monday, February 8, 2010

not angry anymore

on friday my uni PC crashed. maybe it felt my wrath (see last post) and shut itself down. it's still broken. it's corpse takes up most of my desk. it holds my work from friday hostage. i'm pretending not to hate it. i'm pretending not to be impatient in waiting for the IT person.

it seems easy, from the position i currently occupy, to think that the walls are closing in around me. Here, on my sliver of a desk, but also here, with my sliver of a phd thesis. and with an uncertain enrollment, uncertain supervision, uncertain employment, and a pending trial (review panel). but they're not. i just need to shift my perspective, frequently, to see that nothing matters all that much. the world is largely unaware of my small project, so no need to beat myself over the head about it. things are do-able, no need for stress.

mood swings have been taking me over, more than ever. for this i have my swim therapy. last week's swimming was intense - on tuesday and thursday i faced some serious demons. each time, within the first 6 laps, i had what may have been anxiety attacks. it's like something shatters and i'm not really sure where i stand, what i'm doing, or whether i'm capable of situating myself anywhere (in the phd, but also the world). it's quite terrifying. when it happened on tuesday i wanted to get out of the pool and run away. i wanted to flee everything. but i kept swimming, and i'm glad i did. it seems a necessary hurdle to jump because afterwards, the swim is calm, soothing, and i regain some sense of control. the madness is warded off, once again. i can continue my sisyphean journey of swimming laps, writing words, walking streets.

i'm slightly concerned that posting this will make my madness official. for i do worry about being deemed mad. it's hard enough to get people to listen without such a diagnosis. let's just pretend i'm sane for now, okay. or rather, let's pretend sanity exists. and that life can be purposeful.

though maybe my madness is the tool used to draw metaphors between my swimming, my writing, my phd-ing. the futile journeys, the repetitious movements, the back and forth of carving lines into something. and really, in the end, it's just about distracting myself from myself so that i might feel that i can do something that exceeds myself.

Friday, February 5, 2010

when pablo talks to machines, the machines talk back

yeah, well, maybe i don't wanna write this fucking phd anyway!

grr... i sent an email to postgrad coord & supervisor suggesting that maybe i should re-enrol and suspend my candidature next month, so that i don't lose my space and library access in the meantime. i can feel the clock ticking. when i swipe my card i wonder how many swipes i've got left. i suggested that maybe i should go parttime instead, so that i can continue to have access. i cc:d the director.

director replies with a very formal email (there'd obviously been a few emails back and forth) deferring to 'the panel':

"The progress review panel supported your original idea..."
"the panel’s recommendation were based on this timeline..."
"The panel would not support you continuing without satisfactorily addressing..."

fuck you and your stupid fucking panel!

yes, maybe i'm overly sensitive. and maybe i have problems with authority. and maybe i'm indecisive and flippant. but can't we just talk like real fucking people with real fucking problems and not be so fucking official about this stupid, tiny phd i'm attempting to write.

maybe it's time to apply for an APA at another uni with a decent fucking school.