unknown places

J came around this morning. i was in bed reading that author whose other book he borrowed from me. the one he returned all scratched up and worn. he felt bad about that but i said he shouldn't. i love that it has his fingerprints all over it.

i'm sad that he's leaving town. i should be happy and excited for him, but i can't be. so it's a slightly sombre coffee and chat today, because i can't not think that this is the last time we do this. somehow i find myself telling stories about my wild aunt. his eyes shine. perhaps he is my wild aunt: elusive, driven by unknown forces, running away to unknown places.

as a child, aunt christine was my favourite. until my parents told me she was crazy. though they probably used the word 'troubled'. in telling the story today, i realise that i want to know her once more. i feel sad for her troubles, which weren't troubles so much as differences, which her family tried to extinguish.

christine was never good with men. she often ran away with the wrong man and returned with bruises. or maybe pregnant.

i don't know J's man, and have only heard the difficult stuff that has tainted my view of him. i want his wrongness to be a reason for J not to run away with him. but maybe i'm just pretending that these 'don't go' feelings come a place (of rational judgment) other than my own emotional need. because when we talk, sitting in my lounge room (or in the park, or at that café, or standing on the street below my window), it feels really good. and really good is sometimes really hard to find.

not sure if you'll read this J, but thank you for all your lovely words and hugs. i'll see you in paris. x

thirty six

so this is thirty six. but my birthday is postponed because today (which will start after i sleep) is too full for such matters.

today is me finishing this chapter and preparing that lecture. thursday will taste sweeter.

i hope at thirty seven that i won't be writing such chapters. i hope at thirty seven that this thing will be done, made, finished, gone. i will file it away under 'over and out'.

but of course, not all of my wishes are granted. my boyfriend for a day project is not going ahead. perhaps it was built to fail. maybe i need to wish for something i really do want, because i don't want a boyfriend. all my fictional and future BFs just aren't cutting it. parisian lover hasn't replied to my email, bike boy is in the waiting bay ("let's leave it til may") and boyfriend for my birthday never bought a train ticket.

i've no time for boyfriends or boyfriend projects, but perhaps i can resume other projects on thursday. yes, on thursday i can sit with paper and scissors, and resume my cutting of naked men.

here's a preview, courtesy of mila's igadget:



i want a boyfriend about as much as i want to write another thesis. actually, no, anything would be less troublesome than thesis. thesis steals my sleep.

happy holidays

it was difficult to wake up. and it took a few attempts to leave the house and get to the pool. but eventually i got there. and the swim was great. and the raspberry and sour cream brioche was amazing. and the coffee hit the spot. good morning? yes it was.

then back at home i realised that i've lost my glasses. the new and rather expensive ones. i spent the following hours calling and searching. they're not at that person's home; they're not in that share-car; they haven't been found on a bus... fuck knows where they are.

then my computer at uni doesn't boot. then it does but it's really slow and i make the mistake of rebooting it. the IT person doesn't show up. then the coffee shop person didn't understand my order. i repeated it, she nodded, but i'm pretty sure black coffee shouldn't be cloudy. i drank it, even though each sip felt like a punch.

my feet are dragging and my eyes are foggy. i've given up trying to improve this day. i'll just write my thesis now.

all i want for my birthday is a boyfriend

2011 is my year of over-commitment. it's also my year of the art project. i just committed to another that will happen in less than 2 weeks. so once i write a lecture, mark a bunch of essays, and re-write that thesis chapter (fuck!), i will have a birthday project to attend.

my project involves recruiting a boyfriend for 24 hours, that is, for my birthday. my project begins with pretending that all i want for my birthday is a boyfriend, and surprise! there he is. his name is daniel. he'll arrive on a train from interstate. we've not seen each other before, only in photos. we're friends on facebook though :p

we'll have to do all those things you do when you're boyfriends. dinner, romance, etc. and then we'll break up the next day. hopefully it'll be a respectful parting, and we'll have just 'drifted' or something like that. i hope we can still be friends. i hope there's no tears this time round.

part of this is about moving away from last year's birthday, when N didn't take me to dinner (i was left alone and i cried). last year was pathetic, but this year will be fun. my boyfriend will take good care of me. he'll sleep in my bed, spend time in my home, and just 'be there' for me.

"let's all melt down together"

the sun is shining. this morning it caressed my back as i marked essays at the dining room table. now it strokes the right side of my face, as i sit at my desk. it casts a reflection of me in the monitor. i'm wearing glasses. i continue to startle myself, but at least i've started forgetting that they're there (when they're there, because often they're not). i don't want to become too dependent on seeing things clearly.

S told me a nice story last week about how he likes to have morning blurriness before he puts his contact lenses in. i imagine his partial blindness as a comfortable nest, a waking up, a ritual of not-yet-ready-to-see-the-day.

always nice to re-frame what might otherwise be thought of as our body's failings.

today, in the sun once more, i sip coffee and talk about other body failings, about a friend's negotiation of illness, medication, and feeling well. he chose not to take the medication because of its side effects - a choice with consequences, but one that feels right. a choice i've not yet had to make. my body feels trivial and small next to his.

elsewhere today: i read about death (a friend who lost a friend). i hear about a HIV zine that used to appear next to dancefloors in the 90s, with rants about being sick and skinny and dying. i talk to someone about her menstrual body aches. and all these stories remind me that we're all falling apart. this is incredibly comforting. because it's not pleasant to feel like you're the only one falling apart. so together we can laugh as our organs give way and our limbs fall off. together we can extend our bodies or not (with pills, glasses, or other apparatus). together we can dance to this:

the ethics of the adventure

yesterday i found myself purchasing simone de beauvoir's the ethics of ambiguity. i had no intention of buying it. i didn't even know it existed. but i felt compelled.

i read the first chapter in victoria park, away from the conference i'd been to that morning. i felt more attached to words on a page, and the grass under my body, than the words and faces of speakers at the conference. i needed something more grounded, more alone, more me.

after reading the first chapter i scrawled an existentialist rant in my notepad. it goes something like this:

"By uprooting himself from the world, man makes himself present to the world and makes the world present to him" (p12).

[This] suggests an ambiguity of distance/closeness. An 'in' that relies on an 'out'. A denial of self to get to a self. A circular motion of self-recognition [that always eclipses itself]. Like writing. I recognise myself in the words I write, and less so in the urge to write, or the tension that brings me to the page. But to enter the page I forget myself. I extract myself from myself (I write) and through extraction I come to see myself as me (a subject unified).

The parenthesis (Beauvoir references Husserl)
I parenthesise myself. I pretend a voice that echoes from within. Or, from the hand. It writes as though unmediated, as though natural. A spilling of self in ink. As artist, I express, through line and symbol, the story of who I am. As though I am a thing with borders, definition, morals, and purpose. I crystalise a self, for purposes of continuation, to know my worth, to know that I can exist (which is to create)... I have perfected this narrative of self to the point that it is accepted and believable. I carve myself in words, and the expectation (of everyone) is that I do so - [in this] there is social acknowledgment of 'me'. And this me-ness is my only true pursuit. I write to know me. But because I cannot fully know me, I'm returning to the page, again and again...

"the original scheme of man is ambiguous: he wants to be, and to the extent that he coincides with this wish, he fails" (p23)

this morning, in bed, i read chapter two. i learn about 5 kinds of 'men' - the sub-man, the serious man, the nihilist, the adventurer, and the passionate man. i see myself as the adventurer. The adventurer "has to declare himself" (60). "He throws himself into his undertakings with zest, into exploration, conquest, war, speculation, love, politics, but he does not attach himself to the end at which he aims; only to his conquest" (58).

and yes, i'm feeling uninspired to finish 'that project', but i have enjoyed the process/conquest/journey. but there are other journeys (which do excite me) to be had. and my urge to jump ship is easy, because i care little for the destination.

"Whether he succeeds or fails, he goes right ahead throwing himself into a new enterprise to which he will give himself with the same indifferent ardor" (59).

however, "Favourable circumstances are enough to transform the adventurer into a dictator" (62). oh dear. but perhaps more distressing is my hatred of and detachment from others (which i prefer to call independence).

"His fault is believing that one can do something for oneself without others and even against them" (63).

so i guess the life of an adventurer is not all (ethical) fun and games. and there's quite a sting in that last statement which reverberated after i read it. perhaps today's mantra can be found at the close of this chapter:

"I concern others and they concern me" (72).