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).

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)

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.

leaving the panopticon

so here i am, sitting on the green rug in the loungeroom, on the 12^th floor. it’s early(ish) in the morning and i’ve just finished coffee and toast. i’ve been working on my essay - reading (and writing) about foucauldian concepts of governance. in particular, ‘the art of government’ as something that promises security and health in exchange for ongoing knowledge about individuals. a system in which we hand over our innermost thoughts (through participation in scientific, medical and other apparatuses) so that we can be governed – for security, for social wellbeing, and so that we too may be able to learn more about ourselves. and then a voice appears from nowhere. a calm male voice that is not impolite (he says excuse me) and tells me that they are about to test the fire and evacuation alarms in the building. i notice the white speaker on the roof in the hallway. it’s somewhat camouflaged, being the same colour as the paint surrounding it. the voice continues, repeatedly telling me “this is a test”. and then the alarms sound. the same alarms they occasionally test at uni, where again, a voice thrusts itself into the room i work in, advising me not to be alarmed, that “this is a test”. normally i’m not alarmed, just pissed off that the tones are so loud and disruptive. but today i think i am. it’s the foucauldian reading i’ve been doing all week. it’s the already tenuous feelings i have about staying here, in this panopticon where i am under constant surveillance. the cameras pointing at me in the courtyard, the mirror in the lift, and the immaculate but unused garden all remind me of this. as does the swiping of cards (at the gates, the doors, in the lifts). last night i noticed the black bubbles on the roof at the swimming pool. cameras collecting details and information that may be useful at some point, for some reason. even if it’s not information that’s used, it’s still gathered, and i’m still a subject of surveillance, which does affect me. like now, when i’m feeling particularly uneasy and having 1984 flashbacks.

“your attention please. the fire alarm testing is now complete. acknowledge all alarms”

today i’m leaving the panopticon to housesit for justine. i’m sure there’s a little less surveillance in that place. though i hear the neighbour downstairs likes to complain about the sound of people walking above. but that i can handle.

smile you're in kensington

that's what is written on a sign in the middle of anzac parade. i pass by it a lot. i like it a lot. i'm sure, on the odd occasion, it has made me smile. a successful campaign? or just me.

i'm about to move out of my temporary waterloo residence into a temporary randwick residence. it will be good. though i have grown more attached to waterloo than i thought. i will miss the pool that's always relatively empty. i'll miss it's proximity to good food. though i like that i'll be able to discover more places soon, in my new postcode.

today is good. today i can breathe. i'm not rushing around like a maniac. nor am i feeling guilty for doing little study/work. though i will head to work shortly. just a short walk to my other desk, with other paperwork relating to other goals. i like my new workplace.

death to old words

i didn't much leave the house this weekend. only to accompany mark in his house-hunting. finding a house that i'm likely to spend a lot of time in, though it will not be mine. so i try to stand back and let mark find his place. it's difficult. but what was he thinking when considering the smelly place next to the train line with a pink and yellow room and shells in the toilet seat?

now he's been offered a place. and soon the box packing will begin.

monday: i'd normally be in sydney. but i stayed in newcastle and read about radical empiricism. amused that i was reading the work of michael jackson. the guy who founded phenomenological anthropology, not the moonwalk.

i finally put in my passport application. i lunched with vanessa. i held back from the obsessive sorting that swallowed my weekend.

on saturday night i forfeited a friend's party so i could sit on the loungeroom floor and tear up pages of horrible writing from many years ago. that was quite satisfying.


"Use, not logic, conditions belief" - Michael Jackson

Cathy

This morning I remembered a scene from last month. I’m in Camperdown (Victoria), where I used to go to high school. I’m with Mum, and I suggest we go for coffee. We walk down Manifold Street as I piece together memories of when I walked here often. I feel a little anxious, realising that I might bump into someone I used to know. Mum takes me to what’s meant to be the best café. We sit and talk, and the coffee is surprisingly good. We’re having a nice chat, probably the most philosophical discussion we’ve had to date. We cover topics such as health care, stolen generations, foster parenting, social disadvantage, our own relationships with money.

At some stage a woman walks past. She’s holding the arm of another woman and a walking stick in the other hand. She walks with difficulty. She lifts her arm holding the stick and waves at Mum. Then she looks and waves at me. I realise that it’s Cathy. I used to work with her in the supermarket. I knew she had MS, but had not seen her in years. The woman on her arm is her mother.

Like most people from the old town, I’d forgotten that she even existed. But she does. She’s still there, and she probably couldn’t have left had she wanted to.

Meanwhile, I fled. Even as a faraway son I complained about my family, my town, the things I’d escaped. I believed my escape was necessary, that I had a lot to explore. And so I shredded the memories of people I once knew.

Not that I was close to Cathy. But we talked at work, and she was always nice to me. She was friendly with everyone.

She remembered me. She waved, stick in hand. I waved back. I was saddened for a moment. Then I returned to the conversation with Mum.

It felt more like friendship than our usual mother/son repertoire. I guess we have some distance between us. We’ve each changed and the lines are being redrawn. She asks about Mark, which feels strange. She tells me about Dad, allows me to see him as she does – the characteristics he hides from everyone else. I start to picture a more caring, thoughtful man. She talks about her parents – their history which is her history. And mine.

Things are changing. Things are good. I’m no longer the son who wishes he didn’t have a family. My anger is easing. I wish it had happened sooner.

Does Cathy ever wish that she didn't have her family? I don’t know why I thought of her this morning. I’d been reading Nikolas Rose’s theories on biological citizenship, but I don’t think that was it. Though perhaps it made me contemplate my own health-subjectivity. I watched the film The Edge of Heaven recently, but I don’t think that was it. Though it presented a nice take on parent/child relationships, and their social and historical attachments.

After reading and eating, I showered. Beneath hot water I thought of Cathy and I cried. Tears. Guilt. I ran away and she remembers me. She waved. And she still waves. And when I think of that I can’t help but cry. I’m sorry.