peppermint tea, Suede, a phone call

today was the first day of my new work-to-death schedule. over-commitment, once again, in a final burst of money making (in preparation for a year of poverty and thesis making).

i'm surrounded by taureans: people like me. people a little bit grounded, a little bit distant, rather independent, and somewhat predictable. i can point to 6 whom i've had recent dealings with and i feel like they're keeping me a little bit focused and a little bit upright. i need that.

and tonight was the phone call to suggest a week off for some space and some time. because i need some thinking time. and so does he. i didn't enjoy the conversation but i enjoyed the feeling afterwards. my week has freed itself up for more work, more time with friends, and finding some of that taurean ground that seems to be missing.

and i'm trying not to think too much about one of those taureans. i'm trying not to fuck up friendships. i'm aiming for chastity. so it's a fine time to put my head down and work.

weekend drama

all relationships are hard work. relationships that define themselves as 'not-relationships' are particularly hard. the experiment exists beyond a model, so when things go askew there's no fallback position. there's no default setting. there's just me and him having awkward conversations in the dark. there's misunderstandings. there's the surfacing of words said that i'd forgotten. words that resonated for him. words heard differently. and so we twist them around and pass them back and forth, endlessly.

after dinner, when we're alone, the temperature drops. he's making the bed. he's showering. he's busying himself. i'm laying on the bed, unable to find words to disrupt this awkward drama.

lights are out. his voice is unsteady. there's anger there. there's a slow undressing of all our insecurities, hesitations, dilemmas. i fall asleep and wake in an empty flat. disorientation. it's impossible not to feel alone when you're alone in this flat. he's never not here. his phone is there, his wallet too, but no him.

a few hours later (or minutes), there's me and him and more words. there's me staring at those curtains - cream with brown lines - moving in the breeze. and i think this is the last time i'll look at these curtains from this bed. this is my last time here; with that thought, i drink it in. mostly i stare at the curtains that dance freely in the breeze. the only movement, as we lay still amongst our words.

hours (or minutes) pass until we're holding each other again. i lay on top of him and kiss his lips. he says 'it's about time'. we take to each other like starving animals. few words now, just other sounds as we travel in and out of each other. the curtains probably still dance, but who cares. i'm no longer planning my exit. i'm somewhere else and it's not a place i can describe easily. except to say it's nice. and i stay there for the rest of this day, even now, at home, alone (but so not alone).

before we leave his flat i try to push him into the hallway in his underwear. he says i'm mean. i say 'if you love me you'll walk into the hallway naked'. he says 'but i don't love you.' exactly. and this is what it feels like to not be alone.

for all we know

This song occupies that lovely space before kissing, or maybe after kissing, but either way, the space of departing from the one you love and not knowing if you’ll see them again. “A kiss that is never tasted, forever and ever is wasted”. Indeed. But this space is cause for shyness, and often I don’t lean in for that kiss when I probably should, and this leads to many open-ended dates, conversations, and looks of uncertainty. Once I like you, I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to risk the chance of never seeing you again. So I make plans that include you. I schedule a friendship that is nice, lovely even, but it precludes us from tasting kisses. And I’m not as positive as Billie Holiday. I rarely have her casual attitude to love. She knows that there’ll be other loves and a future of many kisses. I need to take a page from her book. I need to step back and imagine tomorrow’s kisses; those tasted and wasted, real or fantastic. And of course there'll be more lingering on the streets, on train platforms, and after final words drop. “We won’t say goodnight until the last minute”. Indeed. There we are in the Métro, talking quietly and letting trains pass. Like clockwork they slide on by. I say I’ll take the next one, the next one... okay, the last one. And of course, I want your lips on mine, but they brush each side of my face. It almost feels right. And I slip away from you wondering if that was the last kiss. It’s always the last kiss. But for now I wake up in the wrong continent. “For all we know, this may be a dream”.

meeting mother

i'm meeting his mother tonight. not sure why i thought this would be a good idea. i guess i want to impress him. i guess i want to see how it feels. i guess i wonder what she's like, and what she might think of me. though i don't suppose she knows much about me. and her partner will be there too. and we're going to that place where we often eat. (but things will feel different, because it's me, him, his mother, her partner).

i'm there as a friend, i think. but who knows what their conversation will hold on the way to the restaurant. i guess she'll connect some dots at dinner. and i'm confused by what it will feel like and how i'm to behave. (do i kiss him on the lips?).

meeting mum is so counter to our relationship, which might best be called an anti-relationship. perhaps meeting mum doesn't have to be weird, in that case, because it needn't mean what we expect it to mean. (relax; there'll be wine).

i imagine i'll be asked 'what do you do?' which could be interesting, because in this time of 'hanging out' we've not really gone there. we know the basics, but these aspects are irrelevant. work is that place we go to after we crawl out of each other's beds. so many mornings of moving around each other as we shower, dress, and leave for work. and we don't need to know what we 'do' after we part on the corner, in the park, or at the top of the stairs. (i don't want to not kiss him on the lips)

technologies of the selves

so i started a new facebook account.

firstly, it was part of a cyclic purging that i observe myself doing; it's about realising that i spend too much time administrating my friendships, social connections, and related participation in semi-public dialogues. the purge is fueled by my phobia of time (there's not enough hours in the day, apparently), and thus if i limit my social/friendship/procrastination potential, i can take back some time to do things more necessary (as though things and people can be wedged apart). secondly, it was a reaction to the FB 'timeline' format which presented the last 5 years back to me as if to say 'here, we wrote your autobiography'. no! my autobiography is not linear, technologically determined, or the sum of my online performance. so the point was to self-delete and start afresh with pseudonym (one familiar to you if you read this) and clear slate. no photos, just words, and an agenda to script a new autobiography.

but then i found i couldn't self-delete. i found that i've built a web of connections with people, information, and news sources, and a culture of play that actually eases my concerns about time/production. and i've been able to bond with people, or stay looped in with faraway people, which maybe wouldn't happen otherwise. so i remain undeleted.

surveillance is a concern, of course. but this week i noted a 'come join the police force' ad in my margin, and that gave me hope. the spambots and data filters are taking my words and generating misfired messages. surely i've said 'fuck the police' in the course of my recent techno-performative networked history, and it seems the words are returned to me by mechanisms that misread. so perhaps the machine (for now) cannot know/shape/profile me at all.

plus, the machine doesn't read sarcasm, irony, or subtle and local cultures of performativity. the machine doesn't realise that what informs my words are the conversations that it is not privy to. much of my daily life evades it.

i was speaking to a friend this week who said she intentionally floods the web with her name so as to be less accountable for having a true online presence, and to exist as fragmentary, evasive, and promiscuously performative. these are my words, not hers, but this is what i take from the conversation. i have a new lover who has no concern for privacy and floods his FB page with endless raging words and drunken photos. i like his carelessness. because being careful is tedious. and maintaining privacy is something that takes much time, effort, and paranoia (all for no reward, because privacy, in any context, can never be guaranteed).

so now i have two accounts/selves, and in many ways my pseudonym is more me than me. there, like here, i am less conscious of who's watching, because maybe they don't even know who they're watching. i'm just a string of words that can be overwritten/re-written/de-written next week.

harissa

i was going to meet P tonight, for sex, but a sore throat told me not to. i suggest sunday instead. his messages are full of txt speak, so i struggle to comprehend. during the week it seemed as though he said he stabbed his boss, but he didn't.

it's friday night and i thought about going to see a film. but i lay on the couch and realise i don't need to, that i can go to bed early. that i can finish watching Les Parapluies de Cherbourg.

i made a morrocan tajine with plenty of garlic and harissa. now i'm sitting at the kitchen bench sweating through every pore. the room feels like a sauna, which is great. i flood myself with lemon water and know that this'll make me better tomorrow. i listen to this:



R sent me this link and i can't stop playing it. it makes 'heart of glass' into a whole new text; melancholic and dreamy. and i guess being here, being pleasantly alone, makes the song all the more poignant. there is nothing to disrupt the attention i give to this song and the feelings it evokes.

four more days, four more nights. before i know it i'm back, working, studying, falling into the same old stresses. as always, i think i've transcended my demons. i think that being away gives me a new outlook on what i'm doing in sydney. but life will get in the way, of course.

D stays tomorrow night, so i hope to be fit and slept and energetic in case we go out for dinner and drinks, which is likely. he'll speak to me in french and i'll not understand. i'll try to play the game only to get frustrated and give up. it's easier to bumble my way through french with strangers than people like D, because what we have to say requires a broader vocabulary. one day, with him and all the others, i hope to express things bilingually. and with two languages, more can be said.

texto

a sad parisian writes a text message.

"You seem to be what we call in french quelqu'un de bien. I wish you a very sweet night."

a sad non-parisian finds comfort in the words of a stranger. yet again.