Wednesday, December 31, 2008

gone was the year

my year ends on a low. have been a bit down these last few weeks. perdu. numbness.

this morning i struggled to get out of bed. i needed someone to enter the room with those medical shock implements that look like irons. "clear!" zap.

but i was forced to drag myself up and out of bed.

life begins in 2 weeks. in sydney. i haven't used my diary for the last month as i haven't needed to. i think this is my problem. nothing to plan my time around. just blank days.

(now playing: always crashing in the same car - david bowie)

i'm starting to assemble my things in the spare room for packing. some of my stuff is already boxed, has been since june, since leaving thorn st. i'm hoping that part of my sadness will be eased by the unpacking of boxes. yet i suspect a large part of it relates to the absence of thorn st.

i try to be tough and unsentimental but it's not easy. i have to pretend that i don't need things and places to prop me up. that's definately not easy. my boxes, my memories; they're heavy but necessary.

i write this from my old table in the front room of bull st. surrounded by an empty bookcase, an unhanged picture of mouchette, my couch... this room is the least used. my furniture, dust and quiet.

i'd like to feel at home at bull st, but can't. though maybe i've never really tried.

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

project britney?

last week, xmas eve, and mark wants to buy cds for the car trip to my parents house. it's only 1.5 hours. i don't want to go shopping (because it's xmas eve) but we do. he buys the new kaiser chiefs and britney's circus.

i only lasted 6 songs from circus (though the latter few were skipped over after a minute or so). i started to get all grandpa and launched into a rant about pop music.

i quite like pop music and can be somewhat defensive of it given that i was raised by pop. but on this day i felt sad and wanted to return to a time of early madonna, prince, cyndi lauper, etc. mostly because those artists (at this time) were less polished and gave us interesting lyrics to grasp and consider. they had edge. circus does not, and it certainly lacks in the lyrical department. though britney used to give good lyrics. think toxic, slave 4 u, everytime, baby one more time, do somethin'...

not that i ask for pop lyrics to be well-considered and poetic (this i can find in other music), but at least they can be interesting and cleverly composed.

mark says he doesn't really hear lyrics so much as sounds. he likes britney on this basis. i find this interesting, but then can't help but consider what role britney has in these sounds. probably very little, just like the lyrics (she co-writes 3 of the 13 tracks, all buried in the latter half of the album).

i can't help being cynical about britney. indeed, she is a concept, a brand, a vehicle upon which to move dollars. which is not to say she can't be good. rihanna is the same, yet some of her gems allow me to forgive this (if only to enhance my listening pleasure). yet i would never pay money for the recordings of either artist.

in the past i've criticised claims of inauthenticity thrown at pop music, made on the basis that pop is shallow, vacuous, apolitical, mass-produced. rather, it can be said that pop music is truly postmodern in its rejection of the authentic. it is ever-changing, historically derivative, intertextual, an interplay between the real and the fake - thereby challenging the stability of either.

yet i think what bothers me most about circus is its claims for authenticity. the lyrics seem to play on the public britney phenomenon. there's a lot (once again, á la gimme more) about the media and paparazzi savaging her, her struggle to take back the power, her refusal to be a victim - "i call the shots" (circus).

but she didn't write these words. she's singing about herself through someone else's pen. as a writer of the personal (and not simply a consumer of pop), i feel somewhat affronted by this. by no means do i consider my own writing as an enterprise in authenticity, but it's my own grappling, play, thought-processes. here, britney is absent from such process. she only inhabits these words through her (heavily manipulated) voice.

as someone who can't help listen to (and dissect) lyrics, i can't be comfortable with new britney. i'd rather pop that doesn't pose as autobiography. i'd rather pop that lets listeners recognise themselves in lyrics, rather than dressing them up as those of the performer. if anything, this is just an extension of the britney phenomenon. another chapter of the fuss that is worth little more than a yawn. poor britney? fuck off.

there's no shortage of personal writing in pop music, much of it atrocious. but some of it brave and worthy of mentioning. i'm thinking madonna (particularly the like a prayer album) and pink. both classic pop artists in their inflections of self, their risk-taking, their generosity, their edge.

not that pop artists need to give their selves. i'd rather delta goodrem didn't share her cancer battle in stringing together a bunch of 'i'm a survivor' clichés. yet, this was an expectation by many, including her fans. as it was for kylie. i remember a SMH reviewer saying of kylie's x album that it was a perfect opportunity for her to give us something personal. but kylie has never been generous in this way. undoubtably, for good reason.

surely if britney wanted to take back the power and "call the shots" she might just sing about something that is not her. womanizer works on this level (though reviewers have found personal meaning in these lyrics too). but surely it's just a song about about a girl striking out at a boy (for being "nothing but a womanizer"). inches removed from the girl dumps boy genre (see beyoncé's irreplaceable and rihanna's take a bow). an interesting genre, but hardly one i would call feminist, as others have.

so anyway, i'm driving my sister's car and ranting about pop music and i say to mark 'i think i feel another zine coming on'. i'm not sure if this is a good idea, or just a desire to write again. my writing arm has taken vacation, resting by my side as i consume novels, books and films but write nothing of them, or me. the ease and vigor with which i write this tells me its probably a good way to occupy myself in the coming weeks.

not that my project will be about the britney phenomenon. i'm sure dozens of cultural theorists are writing about that. and while fascinating on some levels, i'd rather look at pop, and my own grapplings with that and with myself as fan/consumer/grandpa.

Friday, December 19, 2008

playlisting

amplified xmas carols are fading in and out, wafting through the bedroom window. it's quiet. am alone. mark is at work xmas drinks. i'm waking from a nap. still feeling the pinch of hangover.

too many beers were had last night. quiet drinks became trashy night. i was the only one who didn't have to work today. though i was up before 8, in the ocean by 9. that was nice. it cured me, briefly.

then it was more coffee, food, and catching up with friends. when carly left at 3 i returned to being tired, queasy, blah. so i finished my online 80s lyrics quiz. then i listened to smog. then i went to bed.

now i listen to lastfm. and i'm wondering why it's taken me so long to embrace this. it's lazy playlisting. it's finding new music. it's putting already favourite music up against each other.

yet new music is also complicating my life, as my ipod is full. i've exceeded 30GB. i have to remove music in order to add music. i don't enjoy making such choices, limiting my catalogue. so it seems an upgrade is likely to happen.

i hate xmas carols. i wish mark would come home. i'm thinking about how my sister will insist on playing xmas carols on xmas day.

my computer has frozen 3 times while writing this. perhaps lastfm is not so great after all. or maybe it's just my piece-of-shit computer.

time to get up and make some noise.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

nothing

awake at 4am for the second day running.

i've been lying in bed trying to shut my mind down, but thinking about all manner of trivial things. like my to-do list. fretting about getting organised before we head south for xmas. yet, there's little to organise. my life is not complicated right now.

drunk and drugged people are walking the streets, shouting to each other. cars are accelerating heavily. there's too much noise and it bothers me.

is it something i ate? is it my lethargic days of achieving little? is it the weather? these thoughts plague me and make sleep even more difficult. eventually i get up, go downstairs, write here.

things are strange for me right now. haven't been inclined to study much, or do much of anything. for the six weeks i was away my days were full and my eyelids were heavy by the time it reached night. then i was busy with study deadlines. now it's disconcertingly calm. there's nothing to busy myself with. well there is, but i have to make it happen. i can't just step outside and fall into something. there is no pressure of a deadline. so i float about in frustration. days of nothing. or what seems like nothing.

i feel guilty for doing nothing. yet uninspired to fix this.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

homeward

today my panel happened. the panel decided to recommend my upgrade to a phd, with the support of my supervisors. so it's all done. and it seems unlikely that it won't go ahead. phew.

my laziness has continued throughout the week. yesterday i came to uni and spent most of my time reading emails. then i filled out my 5-page progress report. it was easier than i thought. i also ate lots of chocolate. peppermint filled. and then i wrote emails. did not study.

today i had an extended breakfast with a friend in surry hills. i mean, east redfern. got to uni a few hours before the panel. did not prepare.

but it was fine. now i still don't want to study. i've just selected some books from my shelf to take back to newcastle. always a difficult choice.

in less than 50 days i'll be living in sydney again. enmore. my books will be within reach. i will feel like a student. i will have a room of my own. i'm excited by the prospects of making a new home. one that's more than a temporary stay. i think 2009 will be my year of structure, stability, routine, and discipline. the things i had to run from in order to want.

Monday, December 8, 2008

lazy

today is lazy. home alone, yet to leave the house, maybe i won't. though i would like to. i need to send something to dad for his birthday. i need earphones so i can listen to music on wednesday's train. i've been dreaming about getting a stove-top espresso maker. but it's christmas, so i don't want to be in shops. if only online shopping was more instant.

but i should get some sunshine. and maybe i should swim. there's so much i could do, but i choose nothing. well, nothing other than downloading music, looking at emails but not answering them, and laying on the loungeroom floor.

music collection additions include rolling stones, bob dylan, public enemy, the jam, duffy, the clash, the pretenders, dead kennedys, the shangri-las, the supremes, sly and the family stone, nine inch nails...

i'm not sure where my tastes are taking me at the moment. but it suddenly felt necessary to have access to this music.

now it's suede. current song: lazy.

Monday, December 1, 2008

ouch

the sun has scorched my white skin. i didn't expose myself for long, but i guess it's been a while since i've been in this kind of sun. brutal. my chest and shoulder are sticky with sorbolene. it's hot. i suffocate outside and in. but inside it's my research proposal that stifles me. last night i was feeling better after reading over it so far. 'i'm well read' i brag to mark. and supervisor agrees. but then goes on to say some more cutting remarks in today's email. criticisms. what's my question? what's my fucking question? it's unclear. and without a question there's no point.

3 days to deadline. i want to quit. really want to quit. yet my anger for supervisor and her email will mean i finish it in spite of her. i'll finish it to say fuck off. though to actually say it would be nice right now. fuck off.

this not being the first time, and the feeling that my anger is repetitive makes me question 2 more years of this. seeing and speaking to friends doing creative things also makes me want to quit. i can write something. i can be creative. why am i doing this anyway?

losing faith in my self, my abilities, my coping. will i ever be good enough?

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

aeroport

25 Nov, 22:06, Charles de Gaulle

24 minutes tll boarding. 69 minutes til departure. This is the end of my french sojourn.

So tired, and looking forward to home. But also know i’m gonna miss this faraway land that has in some ways felt like my home. Each time i left paris, i longed to return.

Today was a bit special. I walked and walked, and looked and thought, and soaked it up. A couple of times i reached for my camera, but stopped myself. No photos today. Just enjoy the moments.

I visited proust at Pere Lachaise cemetery. I looked at the names of many dead people, etched into stone.

I made my last purchases, ate my last food, took my last look.

I don’t exactly know why i love paris. A combination of things, i guess. One of those being that it’s new, different, exciting. I wonder if i would love it as much if i were here for 6 years and not 6 weeks. I can’t help thinking that i would. Plenty of films, good food, nice people, and much to inspire me to be creative and to do things. I think i would be fine.

Not to say i’m going to move here. Well, not immediately. I can’t think of this now – I have so much waiting for me in Australia. My favourite people live there. The ones i need around me. The ones i’ve missed. And in my tired worn out state just now, i need to be home. I need to know that home is just 24 hours away.

Maybe i can only move to places if there’s a time limit, for I have difficulty committing to anywhere indefinately. I can’t live in Newcastle. I can live in Sydney, but Sydney is 2 years, for now. Timed with the completion of my degree. And after that, who knows. Maybe Melbourne, maybe paris, maybe somewhere that i’m yet to visit or imagine.

And i quite like not knowing. It’s unfortunate that others may not. But i can’t promise anyone anything if the question involves ‘where’.

Charging my ipod. Playing mine sweeper, watching people, and now writing. Internet is 6 euro per half hour. Ridiculous. So i do these other things to pass the time. I’ll check my email in Singapore. Might even update my facebook status.

I bought the herald tribune to read on the plane. After sleep. It reminds me of jean seberg in ‘a bout de souffle’ (breathless, by godard). There was a shop in Bordeaux named after this film. it mostly sold film scripts and books, but i bought a jean seberg postcard. Another Parisian etranger. Another mirror. But it seems i won’t be witnessing a Parisian street death. Well, not for now.

Monday, November 24, 2008

blog review

i just read my entire blog so far. interesting. i think i like it for its occasional shimmer. i also think i whinge too much. sorry about that.

i could make a pact with myself that i will whinge less, but it's unlikely to happen.

in the words offered by bananarama, and many of people i've loved (but certainly not for this reason), "i can't help it".

le retourn á paris

train got into paris-montparnasse close to midday. my room wouldn't be ready for another hour, so thought i'd explore montparnasse. it was cold. trés trés froid. and there were specks of white in the wind. snow? really?

went to a café for lunch, and sure enough, the specks of white grew in size and number. it was snowing in paris. it was pretty.

though by the time i left the café the snow had changed to liquid. it has been raining since. not such a nice welcome after all. now in my hotel room, drying my shoes and pants, and have showered to thaw out. waiting for the sun that won't arrive (it's 4.30).

after today - 2 days left here. and so many things to do. makes me more annoyed about the rain.

but i compensate with patisserie goods. when i arrived at the hotel my room was not ready, so i walked the streets hoping to stumble upon a patisserie oasis. it's sunday, so most shops are shut. it was not looking good, so i decided to just get something from the average looking place near the hotel. thankfully i lost my way. and voila! the oasis! rhubarb tart was my choice. but it was a tough decision. and i need to return tomorrow for the almond cake. or one of many other things. the rhubard was trés delicieux.

my room is very small. very ugly too. it's called hotel modern. it doesn't feel very modern. doesn't even appear to have a lift. i guess, as always, it depends on the context in which you use the word 'modern'.

bordeaux was a bit dull. i think i would have enjoyed it more if i was a middle-aged wine and antique collector. lots of fountains and big stone buildings, but i'm least impressed by those now. not that i ever really was. though maybe in marseille i was. i ended up shopping for some french cds i've been meaning to get. i got:

les shades - my favourite french rock band so far. kinda punk-pop. heard them on the radio a lot, downloaded a few tracks, and yeah, i felt it necessary to have this album. they are playing in bordeaux next week, but i was a week too early for that.

second sex - any band naming itself after the beauvoir book (as i hope they've done) has got to be good. again, heard them on the radio. a bit similar to les shades, perhaps. retro pop-rock. the cd came with a free poster and bandana (black with red 'second sex' written all over it).

les vedettes - unlike the others, i didn't yet know this band. but the cover looked interesting, and i listened to it on one of those sampling booths, and yes, it was trés bon. perhaps a french version of cansei de ser sexy?

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

"i always rely on the kindness of strangers"

in three days i have traveled from high to low.

early morning sunday in marseille i walked alleyways and streets to meet Renaud at Vielle Port. we walked up the hill, him with bike, and took many stairs towards the church above, built upon rocks. we can see all of marseille as the sun rises.

he insists i see inside the church, so we take a look. old people are praying and lighting candles. a high handpainted ceiling with lots of gold. Renaud points up and says, 'and see, there is the gay flag' (the image of a rainbow). it's funny because of his accent, his cheekiness, the context of the situation - two fags in church on sunday morning, tip-toeing around the believers. he says if he knew all things, and discovered that god did not exist, he would keep it a secret, because so many people depend upon that single belief.

he makes coffee and we eat the pastries that he made me order at the boulangerie. we talk. life, languages, the world. he's young, beautiful, wise. we talk without touching, except for goodbye kisses. one on each cheek - my first real french kiss.

i check out of my hostel, browse street markets, stop for coffee in a small bar. as i'm leaving a guy starts to chat. he doesn't speak much english, but tries for me, and i speak french for him. he tells me he's from algerie, but also france. he has dual citizenship. he shows me his residency card. he's proud. i ask if he goes back much, and he does. i assume he goes via boat, but he flies. it only takes 1 hour (pauses to think) 20 minutes. i say goodbye, tell him 'enchanté' and leave. it's the first time i've used this expression, but in this situation it's valid. i was. a pleasant chat with a stranger, finding out a bit about the other. meanwhile, the woman who made my coffee chats to other patrons (all algerian, i suspect), and r'n'b music videos play on the tv in the corner.

i walk to the water where i sit on a wall and make camembert and tomato sandwiches. the sun is out. i write and reflect upon my day so far, my realisation that conversation is the new sex. the buzz, the high, from talking to strangers and meeting new people seems extraordinary. i'm smiling. i'm the happiest person on the planet. but soon to become the most frustrated.

the first train is late, i miss my connection, i board another to port bou. the conductor tells me to go to barcelona i must get off at perpignan not port bou. so i do. i ask when the next train to barcelona is, and the snfc woman points to the train i just got off, says to change at port bou. it starts moving. i explain that i was told to get off here. she says she doesn't understand, and nor does she speak english. she says no trains to barcelona until the morning. tells me i can't use my ticket again and need to buy another. i'm telling her that the snfc man on the train told me to get off here. i suspect she understands, but is disinterested. she tells me to go to the ticket machines because they speak english.

so i spend a night in perpignan. it's late, there's not much to see. i find a hotel and a net café. my hotel room is big, with 2 double beds, one pink, one yellow. someone has painted green vines all over the yellow walls, around doors, on the furniture. i eat cous cous, brush my teeth, wash my face, have a cry.

next morning the couple in the room over the hall are screaming at each other. i shower, dress, leave. i get a new ticket (with 'exceptionally' no charge), some croissants, and board the train. the coastline around the border is impressive, and i start to think missing the train was possibly worth it, for this. passports are checked on either side of the border. in france the guy asks where i'm from. 'australie'. 'oh, c'est bien'. he doesn't need to see it. i'm safe, insignificant.

barcelona-sants. is this my stop? i wanted to go to barcelona-franca. perhaps it will go there too. but the woman behind me says 'this is your stop' and a man has a ticket for my seat. and i have to grab all my bags and fight my way through all the new passengers. and the woman behind me is on the edge of her seat, giving me a look of 'you can do it. go! go!' and i make it off the train.

i find information. find the trains that can take me to the other station, queue to buy a ticket, go to take my wallet from my pocket. but there's no jacket and no wallet. my jacket is still in the train, in the overhead compartment. fuck!

tears well as i wait for the woman to return from her break at the lost and found desk. when she does, i discover she doesn't speak english. she asks a few colleagues, but none of them speak english. fuck!

through sign language, and finding a few words we can understand each other by, and referring to my phrase book, she makes a note of the missing items, my train number and seat, my hotel number. that's all she can do. she tells me 'one to two days'.

i walk onto the street. get out my gay map*, start walking in the direction of my hotel. tears in my eyes. i walk past a large Miro sculpture. i don't care. i love Miro and that's partly why i'm interested in barcelona, but i really couldn't care. i want to be home. to be able to speak to somebody. to cry, alone, not on these streets.

i find the hotel but there's a sign saying to phone the manager. i have no phone. i have no change to use a public phone. i wait, but nobody is passing through this door. i finally ask a passer-by if they speak english. they don't. after a while i try another. he does. i explain my situation, but cringe as i hear myself say i've lost my phone and wallet. sounds like such a lie. i show him my booking invoice and ask if he might phone the number for me. he does. i thank him again and again, tell him he's very kind.

i'm in the hotel. turns out the manager doesn't speak spanish, so he was confused by the guy who made the call for me. i tell him my situation. i have to stop him from speaking several times, because he keeps cutting in. talking about money, my booking, my being late. i say 'please listen' and explain delicately what has happened. he understands. he says i can pay the remainder owing tomorrow, shows me the room, lets me use his phone. he says his friend can call the station for me, because his friend speaks spanish.

so many details. so many frustrations. so many tears. i fax the australian consulate thinking they might be able to lend me a few euro to get by. no response. the station says phone back in the morning. the phone cannot make international calls. i'm online, waiting for someone in australia to wake up, so they might phone mark for me, tell him to get online. no money, no food, but a plush hotel room with clean linen, a tv, toaster...

more tears than i have shed in a long time. thankfully i have the internet. i chat to Renaud and he convinces me that it's not so bad. i'm hungry. i try my luck with gaydar. sure enough, someone wants to chat. they ask what i think of barcelona. i tell them i hate it, but not because of barcelona, because of my situation. he says don't take this the wrong way, but how about i buy you dinner. sure.

mark appears online and we organise money wiring. i dine with a stranger, eduardo. he's nice, but we don't have much in common. he's mexican. he tells me about the spanish languages, spanish history, gives a bit of local knowledge. i learn that i'm staying in the dodgy part of town where there's muggings. i laugh and say, well they're not going to have much luck getting my wallet. i don't think he gets why it's funny.

dinner was goats cheese salad, mushroom ravioli, creme caramel with raspberry coulis, lambrusco. so cheap compared to france. i tell him i'll repay this favour.

it's past midnight. back to the hotel, to emails from mark, and all is on track.

this morning i pick up the money. the cashier is jovial and she laughs with the other cashier about something. keeps on laughing. it's comforting. the feel of cash between my fingers is also comforting. and back at the hotel the lost'n'found person is on the phone. they have my jacket. it's 6 hours away. they will have to mail it to me, but i have to phone the place where it is. i do, but they don't speak english. the manager's friend will call again later.

so things are on the up. i walk back into the streets and start to actually see them, and like them. gritty streets with an interesting blend of people. grunge, colour, punk, elderly. the alley ways are slim, tall, and busy with people. i drink coffee for the first time since sunday, to ease the slight throb in my head. a croissant - but it's bad. what's with the sugar syrup coating? a walk by the water. a seat by the water. a bit of grocery shopping. and back here for tomato and goats cheese sandwiches.


*i picked up a gay guide to barcelona while in brussels. they had them for most european cities. i'm so glad i did, as without it i'd be even more fucked. it has a map with ads of half-naked men around the outside, so i've self-consciously folded all the edges over.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

je suis fatigué. je suis libre.

fatigué = tired. libre = free.

another day of train travel tomorrow. 6 hours to barcelona. finally booked accommodation after several hours looking. many websites to search, a short memory of which are the best ones to use, a lot of wading and checking maps and weighing up price and distance. finally found something quite central.

barcelona scares me. it's so unfamiliar and i can't speak a word of spanish. i guess it's touristy, so i may not need to. i haven't had a chance to look at my phrase book. though i don't think i have the space to grapple with another language just now. perhaps i won't speak at all, or will speak english and expect to be understood. it's only 4 days i guess.

i'm getting lazy and have been speaking english with the staff at the hostel i'm staying at.

french tires me. i know i've improved, but i still have a long long way to go. when i next visit france i hope to be able to engage with people here. trying to find the words to express such simple things can be draining. hence, i'm in bed, having a nap, at 6pm.

when i bought my ticket to barcelona the woman was rude to me. the booking fee was more than usual, so i asked why. she said that's what it is, do you want to make a reservation or not. i said well i'm just not sure why it's 13 euro when it's usually 3. and she says if you're not sure then you shouldn't buy the ticket. but... fuck! do i have a fucking choice? just give me the fucking ticket and take the 13 fucking euro! of course, i did not say it like this.

strange that a small incident like this can have a big impact on my day. as though i've had a falling out with a good friend.

and just prior to this was the man who served me cous cous with a vegetable soup that had meat in it. i point out the 'viande'. it's there, on my fork, and he tries to tell me it's 'legume'. he replaces it with another dish, which i suspect was the same dish with the meat and liquid removed. i find a smaller piece of meat. i eat around it a little, feeling bad for being a fussy whinging middle-class white boy, but at the same time, the thought of the vegies being cooked in a meat-based stock makes me feel ill and unable to eat. meanwhile, he is occasionally feeding family members around me, when they call in. it's like i'm eating in the family home. so rejecting this food (good, edible food for most people) seems really wrong.

i don't eat much, mostly the plain cous cous, and then go to pay. he asks if everything is ok. i say there's still meat in it. he refuses to accept my money. i feel bad, and leave a 2 euro coin on the table (half of what the meal was supposed to be).

i like marseille. though it's a tough place. the canadian guy says it's 'sauvage'. i agree. but it's so interesting at the same time. more than any other place it has got me thinking about borders, human traffic, and how most people don't have the freedom to travel as i'm doing now. could it be that the issue of national security is the new (and acceptable) xenophobia? the words sprayed on the walls of this city seem to suggest that this is the case.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Nice Ville does not translate to nice city

i'm struggling to like Nice. from the moment i got off the train (perhaps even earlier) i knew this was going to be difficult.

it's a world away from Paris. there's an abundance of bleached hair and bronzed bodies. way too many poodles for my liking. lots of old people. and way too much rollerblading along the esplanade. it's another version of Miami (or rather, how I imagine Miami). last night i walked past a tacky café with Wham! playing very loudly (wake me up before you go-go). it seemed perfect, but not in a good way.

the beach is pebbles. signs advise you not to swim there.

it feels like this place was special many decades ago. now it's full of people on the edge of life, still trying to be beautiful. and poodles.

maybe i'm not trying hard enough. maybe i need to stop comparing everything to Paris.

i did have an amazing food experience though, improving my vision of Nice. Went to a bakery and asked the woman if what looked like croissant aux amandes was in fact that. she said yes, but pointed to a tray of brioche aux amandes, saying they were bigger (plus grande). the croissants were pretty small, so i opted for the brioche. it was warm, just out the oven, and pretty fucking unbelievably good! crisply on top and soft and warm in the middle. i was tempted to return for more. but that would make it less special. thinking about it now is having a strange effect on me. so good.

i walked around for a bit this morning, and will head out again soon to explore some more and to buy my train ticket out of Nice. i was eager to do this earlier, but forgot my Eurail pass.

bought a few supplies from a supermarché and the woman at the check out was rockin out to Bob Marley. that was pretty cool. she was quirky. looked at my mandarin and said 'une clémentine!' and giggled. to which i replied 'oui!'.

Lyon, pluie*, and the kindness of strangers

(written Tuesday afternoon on the train from Lyon to Nice)

Lyon is bigger than I thought. I arrive at the station. It’s called Lyon Part-Dieux. I thought Dieux meant God. And part is ‘to leave’. Has Lyon abandoned God? It’s times like these that I realise I've far to go with my translations. I look around for an info desk, ready to ask for ‘une carte de la ville’, but can’t see one. Perhaps I won’t need one. So I find a door with a sign indicating the direction of the city. I walk the streets, there’s a few shops, but doesn’t seem like the city. I take note of landmarks, particularly the tall ones, so that I might find my way back.

Most of the shops are closed. I start to question if it's really Tuesday; a weekday.

There’s signs pointing to the city, but I follow them and it’s looking more lifeless than ever. I give up and start heading back to where I think the station might be. Perhaps I’ll just stick around this particular area for today, for the sake of not missing my train to Nice, and avoiding the *rain.

It rains softly at first, but grows heavy. I start to eat the cheese sandwich that made my bag smelly, and made me hesitant to open my bag on the train. My left hand drags my suitcase, my right holds a sandwich and umbrella. Frustrated, I stop in the doorway of a closed supermarket, to rest and eat. A woman is unpacking her car across the road. She crosses over, approaches me. I get ready for my usual line. “Pardon, mon francaise est mauvais. Erm... pas se vite?” She asks if I know English, then asks in English if I can help with getting her bike out of the car.

I leave my suitcase in her foyer as I help her. She thanks me. I ask her if the station is nearby. I was almost right in the direction I was heading. She asks if she can offer me a coffee. I look at the rain and contemplate. Sure. First I have to help her load up the lift with her stuff. It’s a tiny lift, but everything fits in, and us too.

She apologises for the mess. I ask if she’d been on holidays. But she has broken up with her boyfriend. They were only together for a year but she thought he was the man of her dreams.

She only has instant coffee, so I opt for mineral water instead. She offers me some citron syrup to add, says it’s a local thing. At least I think that's what she said. She speaks mostly in French, but clarifies things in English when I don’t understand. I’m getting good practice. She clarifies the water thing. It’s d’eau, but if you say ‘a glass of’ it’s ‘de l’eau’. Oui. D’accord. Merci.

She calls her parents to let them know she’s home. I ask why the shops are closed, and she starts to say it’s a public holiday when I remember that it’s November 11. Of course. She asks if I mind that she smokes. Not at all.

She has lived here for 12 years, but grew up in/near Geneva, studied at Grenoble. I tell her I thought Lyon was smaller than it is, but she says it’s the largest city after Paris. Oh. I guess it pays to do your research and read those guidebooks. I have 2 hours to kill and ask if she has recommendations. She suggests the Opera house as a nice spot with interesting architecture. And a couple of other places that are further away. Suggests that it will only take 15 minutes on the metro (2 trains) to return. I mention my past difficulties with the metro, including this morning when I ended up catching a taxi to Gare de Lyon. She points out that the crayon building (it’s round with a pointy top) is a good marker of where the station is.

I go to get pen and paper to draw a map, but she has a printer that photocopies, so runs me off a copy. The rain has stopped. Time to go. But it starts again when I'm crossing the bridge. I get wet and my 2 Euro umbrella from Augsburg keeps folding out on itself. I see the opera house. It’s nice, but not spectacular. I like walking by the river though. I like that there’s a river snaking through the centre of Lyon. Just like Paris. Only wider. And with less honeymooners taking photos of each other on the bridges. I have a coffee, check my map, walk back.

I have to walk through a mall which is crazy busy. This is where all the people are. I guess it's crap weather outside, and most other shops are closed. This mall, its shops, its shoppers, could be anywhere. All of a sudden I’m in Westfield, Australia. I search for the exit.

I finally find the station. Find a chair. Sit and eat yesterday’s leftover pasta. The train is late, the platform is cold. Moving towards Nice now, though it’s a big trip at about 4.5 hours. PC battery is about to die, and it seems there are no power points here, which is odd. Tired anyway, so will sleep. And hope that Nice is nice. Going by the other people on this train, I imagine everyone there looks more Italian than French. My kind stranger tells me that Nice is very small. She says her geography is bad, but I point out that it’s not, if compared to mine.

Monday, November 10, 2008

chocolate, street art, and many beers

I have a big crush on Bruxelles.

I arrived at 10H47, left at 22H13. I had no idea what to expect. Picked up a free map from the information desk and went out into the day.

Walked through a market. Looked, but nothing grabbed me. Lots of clothing, some produce and plants and plastic junk stuff. Funny how markets are always the same. Dodgy clothes and jewellery. Cheap but uninteresting. Puffy jackets, racks of tracksuit pants, synthetic hats and scarves...

I keep walking. Searching for a café as I need to piss. There are no free toilets. I spot a rainbow flag down a side-street. It's a bar called Homo Erectus. Amusing. Then I spot more and more rainbow flags. Bars mostly, but nothing is open yet. And a queer bookshop that I will return to once open.

It's Sunday, so most shops are closed. Though there doesn't seem to be a lot of shops. Or there are, but they seem more discreet. Maybe there are mega-malls in the suburbs. Lots of winding paved streets. The buildings seem more gothic than Paris. More varied.

I get some frites from the friterie, but sans mayonaise. I can't go there.

I buy chocolates. I walk. I happen upon the Palais de Justice. It's incredibly huge. Someone has written 'rage pour l'etat (rage for the state) on it. And further on there's more graffiti. I'm walking around it, taking photos, there seems to be no-one else around. Just me and this monolithic building sprouting weeds and stained with words of revolution.

I keep walking, find a garden, sit and eat chocolate truffles. A few kids are kicking a soccer ball, a woman lets her dog run around, the occasional map-toting tourist couple walk through. One of the boys kicks the ball over the high fence. Etched onto the seat where I sit is "M, let me love you".

More walking, more photos of street art, some eating.

There seems to be more street art here than in Paris. Definately more tags, scrawl, stickers and postering. It gives the place a more gritty feel. No one is scrubbing these walls. The graffiti stays, the posters are in various states of disintegration. I like trying to make out these words. As with street/shop signs, some are French, some Dutch, some English. Mostly French though.

I find a nice bookshop and browse for about an hour. Books in various languages, not just French or Dutch. It's attached to a gallery, so there's a lot of art/design coffee table books. Lots of kids books - I mostly look at these.

The queer bookshop doesn't have a lot. Though it does have gay maps of Bruxelles, and most other European cities.

Honey and goat's cheese sandwich for dinner, with a beer blanche. Dessert at another café: coffee and a slice of nutty flan (hazelnuts, walnuts, pecans... very yum). I read the paper. Sarkozy organised a big do for November 11 (tomorrow) but the Germans pulled out at the last minute. It has been a year in the making. It'll go ahead without the (seemingly ungrateful) Germans. At least, that's what I understood of the article.

I buy some beer to take home. The guy in the shop (and his customer friend) tell me that Lindemans is where it's at for Kriek (cherry beer). I mention that you can get Bellevue in Australia, but customer man scoffs and says it's the worse one. He says it's like the Cote d'or of chocolate - the one marketed to the non-Belgian world. I buy some Lindemans kriek, and one of their raspberry beers also.

Time for a drink at a bar. I walk past several queer ones, and some non-queer ones. Many are getting noisy with crowd and music. I want something a bit quiet. I brace myself and enter Homo Erectus. It's fairly quiet. Full of regulars. Men, but a couple of women. Most people are smoking. I ask for a Hoegaarden, but the guy behind the bar doesn't work there and points out the guy who does. A petit, young, dark-skinned boy. He is all smiles and loveliness. He asks where I'm from, welcomes me, shakes my hand. He spends more of his time among patrons, kissing cheeks, taking orders, delivering beers, taking coins; his arms resting on shoulders, his slender body gracefully weaving through people. He brushes his hand down my face, asks if I'm okay, says to ask him if I need anything. I want to marry him.

I don't talk to anyone else. I make eyes with a couple of boys, and exchange smiles, but not ready to attempt a French conversation. And not wanting to speak English.

The bar man leaves, says goodbye. Gives kisses (real or blown) to everyone in the bar as his friends drag him away. When i finish my second beer, I leave too.

Strolling the dark streets, keeping track of time. I walk past the pissing boy fountain. I'd only seen it as statues and chocolates until this point. It's not that exciting. But lots of people take photos.

More graffiti, more walking, and time to head back to the station.

I buy a blackcurrant beer for the walk. I ask the boy in the shop if he can open it, and he does. I can't tell if it's forbidden to do so, but it was a sly gesture on his part, so I guess maybe it is. I don't know if it's illegal to drink on the streets, and don't see others doing so. But it's Sunday, and there's few people around.

I feel slightly uneasy due to this. I always feel safe in Paris because I'm never alone on the streets. But here I'm heading to the station. Quieter and darker. But it's fine, and the journey is quicker than I imagined.

Time to kill. I succumb to vending machine beer (Juliper - I hadn't tried that one yet) and some paprika crisps. I send a text to my beloved. I'm interrupted by a man with outstretched hand. I give him a few coins. I finish my text, my beer, my crisps. I board the train, make a soundtrack for the journey, close my eyes.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

up with dead people

it was sunny, but now there are clouds.

i sat in the Jardin du Luxembourg and read the paper. finding out what the socialist party is up to. wondering what's with the 'frigidaire' references to Segolene Royal.

i'm falling more in love with the gardens. i like that people go there to do stuff. to play tennis, to play chess, to read, to stroll, to play with boats in the fountains, to make out, to jog, to work. there's a lot going on. there's a lot of solitary strolling. there's chairs everywhere for people to set themselves up in groups big and small. and there's brown leaves falling from trees and skirting along the ground. eventually they're collected, by men in overalls, driving tractors, and dumped into cages of dead leaves.

was feeling a bit down after germany. i had to re-adjust to being alone, to lots of silence, to having to motivate myself to do things. spent a few days studying, which is necessary, yet feels like a waste of my time here.

things improved yesterday, and part of that was seeing otto; or up with dead people - a film by bruce la bruce which screened at the gay and lesbian film festival. it was quite hilarious. bruce was there to take some questions afterwards. i then felt less shy, so went to a bar.

i went to Raidd and witnessed a shower performance. it was disappointing. upon hearing about this, i imagined a purely voyeuristic experience in which men would simply shower for the visual pleasure of patrons, without interaction. but this guy was all about working it for the audience. a stripper, no less. with soap and water, and a pair of underwear that ended up around his ankles. he had a huge cock, and unfortunately, that's what it was all about. soaping and thrusting his erection to the open mouthed boys on the other side of the glass. and girls. there were plenty of girls there too, which was nice to see. but yeah, the audience response was far more interesting than the performance. if it was my club there'd be no cock-thrusting, no eye-contact, just some simple everyday showering. and maybe some other bathroom cleansing and grooming activities. like shaving. and the brushing of teeth.

off to see another film tonight. considering a day trip to brussels tomorrow. yet to plan my movements post monday, in which i will head south to warmer climates and strange unknown destinations.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Farid

i'd just been to the Gare de l'Est to pick up my ticket for Augsburg (and buy a return) and was feeling pleased with myself. i spoke in mostly French, but some English, and managed to get it all done. even asked about the Eurail pass i wanted, but seems i have to go to Gare du Nord for that.

i had a few items to buy from the supermarket, but thought i'd head in the direction of Culture Rapid café, where i could grab a drink and see what's on. i did my shopping, but the café was not where i thought it was. i was walking and searching when this guy stops me to ask the time.

he then asks if i live around here. i explain that no, i'm staying in the 5eme, and that i'm from australia. he tells me he speaks english, almost excited by the fact. i ask if he's english, but he's french, he just spends a lot of time in england. he wants to chat. but so do i, cos chatting is a rare occurrence for me on these streets. we speak half french, half english, but i try to keep it fairly french for the sake of practice. he tells me about his love of london for the fashion scene. he asks if i like discothéques. tells me he likes discothéques. asks me if i go to The Marais (obviously sussing out if I was gay or not). i say i've been to a couple of bars there. he points out that there's discotéches for gay boys there, then asks me if i'm a gay boy. i say yeah. he tells me he likes my style (pronounced 'steel').

he asks if we can walk and i say sure. he wants to go somewhere 'discrit' but i say no, i'd rather just talk. so we talk about who we are and what we do. i learn that his name is Farid. i guessed he's about 40. he lives in the 9eme, works in a shop, and likes fashion. he starts listing fashion designers, some of whom i recognise. he likes it when i recognise them - it seems to affirm our commonality or something. he asks me if i like cologne. i say yes and hold up my wrist for him to smell. he likes issey miyake, has some of his own. he starts reeling off positive adjectives to illustrate how much he likes Issey Miyake. he says that Miyake is a very important man.

he keeps thinking i'm from england, and tells me many times how much he loves london, the fashion there, picaddily circus, and other places that i forget.

he asks about Mark and what he does. he asks about what i do. i tell him research and he says "you work in a shop?" and something about bijouterie (jewellery). no, i work at a university and i study. he seems eager for me to be like him.

he then starts asking more specific questions about what i like to do sexually, whether i sleep with girls also, and how i define my sexuality. i respond honestly. it's not as though i'm offended by these questions. though i do realise there's a likelihood that i'm fueling certain desires of his. and sure enough, he again suggests a discrete place. i say no.

all this time we're trying to find the Oberkampft metro. i'm checking my map because i don't trust his directions. he seems keen to walk in any direction, presumably on the lookout for a somewhere discrete. but we stick to the main streets. he asks a passer-by for directions at one point, which is helpful.

We find the metro and it's time to say goodbye. he signals for me to step into a side street to say au revoir. i do. we kiss each cheek and then he waits for a kiss on the lips. i lean in to kiss him. unfortunately he's very sloppy and wets my face with his tongue. i wonder how someone can be his age and not yet know how to kiss.

he wants me to call him. i tell him maybe. he gives me his number. he says the best time to call is between 7.30 and 8.30. is he married? why all this talk of discretion and now this small window for phone calls. but he had mentioned that he's only ever slept with men, that he's had boyfriends. yet, he doesn't know how to kiss. at least his failed kiss confirmed that he didn't just want me in a discrete place in order to stab me and take my money. though i'd sensed that early on. he was genuine. lonely, but not a psychopath. i wasn't particularly attracted to him, but i wasn't not attracted either. and i was lonely too. when i looked him directly in the face there was a spark of something there. i think it was his smile. and his confidence. but i knew that i didn't want to have sex with him. and i know that i won't call him. he probably knows this too, as i was reluctant to take his number. but who knows what he makes of our encounter.

i do admire his bravado for stopping someone in the street (asking for the time, no less) on the basis of attraction. i doubt that's something i could ever do. instead, i rely on the bravado of others for such experiences.

he walks down his side of the metro and i walk down mine. he steals another quick kiss before we part. i see him across the platform, then realise there's no ticket machine, so i can't get through. i go back up to the street. i walk home.

Friday, October 31, 2008

froid

thursday, late afternoon.

it's 3 degrees outside. i went for a walk, since i hadn't left the house. i probably shouldn't have. i got lost (as per usual) but this time i was a bit cold, and it was raining, and my hands were freezing. i was getting more and more angry as i kept not finding my way home. i would have put my hands in my pockets were i not carrying an umbrella and some bread i bought in my travels. i wanted to hit people and cars with my umbrella. today was not a good day to weave through pedestrians and cars and puddles.

anyway, my hands are nearly defrosted now, and i'm eating a croissant aux amande to improve my mood. and having a cup of peppermint tea. and thinking that i'm glad i didn't come in the middle of winter, when it's like this all the time. tomorrow will only reach 5 degrees, but by next week it's supposed to get back to 15.

i need to get an umbrella, as mine is wrecked. today i borrowed alice's, which is orange and has 'ikea family' written on it. i don't know whether that's as daggy as i imagine here. i would have assumed so, but in thinking about what stéfan said about starbucks, i'm not so sure. apparently starbucks are quite exotic here. they're everywhere and very well patronised. this surprised me, particularly given that it's american, and that it challenges a french café tradition. but according to stéfan they're exotic because you can try things you wouldn't get anywhere else.

so yeah, i do question the commonly held belief that french people have refined and exquisite taste. and there's plenty of dodgy food, art, fashion, and politics around her to attest to that. which is actually quite comforting.

last night i watched kim ki-duk's 'the isle' at the cinema around the corner. i'm getting more and more impressed with his films. it was so beautifully composed, erotic, yet violent and uncomfortable (symbolising love, i guess). you don't get a lot of information from his films, but they make sense through symbolism, repetition, choregraphy. the cinema is having a retrospective of south korean films, so tonight i'll return for 'the coast guard, another kim ki-duk film.

there are 4 cinemas in my block. 3 of them are on the same street. all 4 seem to specialise in retrospectives (festivals) and classic films. which is rather special indeed. old films in old cinemas. tuesday i got to see 'the bicycle thief' on the big screen.

from the bicycle thief:

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

finding comfort in food

Been a bit down today. Somewhat fragile. I got lost on the metro and felt like crying. Like a child lost in a shopping centre – all noise and chaos and people larger than life. I asked a man for help (something I’ve managed to avoid until now) and he pointed me in the right direction, which was really nice.

I went to 12eme for coffee with my new ami Stéphan. I was a bit flustered after the metro thing, so chose to speak in English. Next time we’ll speak French. He asked if I was lonely and I said “a little”, but mentioned that I’ll be going to Germany to see a friend on the weekend, and that I spent some time with Alice. But yeah, I’m lonely. He speaks English with a hardcore British accent, having learnt it while living there. He asked if I’d been listening to the radio. I said yes, all the time.

I told him about the man who criticised my accent and he consoled me.

I walked home, despite advice on a direct bus route. I didn’t trust myself to catch any buses or trains, and knew that walking was safe. It might also help me. And I think it did. My favourite thing on the way back was seeing two women having coffee and cigarettes on the kerb, with a bicycle between them being used as a table for their espresso cups and saucers.

Another favourite thing was last week when I saw a couple, guy and girl, sitting in a café window. On the window side they held hands, and in their other hands they held books. Each was separately and intently reading, yet their fingers were entwined on the table. Together, but not. It was very cute.

These are the things I seem to remember. Unlike street names.

I wanted to plug myself into my ipod on the walk home, but I didn’t have it with me. I wanted to listen to the Once soundtrack. I thought maybe I could do this in the park, while eating Algerian pastries. But then it rained.

Food seems the best measure for my current state, so I bought pastries and bread and ducked into Monoprix for another batch of groceries. This time I discovered ‘red dream’ – a drink of puréed strawberries and raspberries. It’s thick, rich, and very yum. Like a dream, in fact. I watered it down with some Perrier lime, which seems to make it more dreamlike. Now I’m eating blue cheese on pain de siegle (rye). I bought more cheese (camembert in a wooden box), more chocolate (white with apricots and pepitas), and biscuits. I bought healthy foods too, but these are my medicines for now.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

rue de la sorbonne

Mercredi, 22 October, 10.54am

Spent my first night at chez Alice. I’m a bit in love with my new temporary home. Small and cosy. One room, and a bathroom I have to walk through sideways. Not a lot of arm room in the shower, as I discovered this morning. But it works. Tout est agréable. The heating is permanently on, so without the window open it’s too warm and I feel sleepy. Perhaps this is why the German’s had the heater on all the time - maybe it’s a cold Europe thing.

Yesterday I washed clothes, did some grocery shopping, unpacked my bags, made a bed, made coffee and tea... and felt great pleasure in all of this. After a week of traipsing about, it’s nice knowing I have 21 days here. That I won’t be dragging my suitcase across uneven (yet pretty) paving for some time. I walked here through rain, knowing it didn’t matter if I got wet, because I had a home awaiting me, and all the luxuries that come with that – refrigerated food, a shower, a toilet, warm and clean clothing, a bed, a view of the Sorbonne.

It seems a lot of locals don’t have such things. The homeless are different to those in Australia. There, the more visible homeless (those who ask for money) appear to have drug dependencies, and are often young. Here, people asking for money are typically old, and often silent but for the gesture of holding out a cup of coins. I find it more upsetting. The person asking for spare change in Surry Hills (assuming they’re homeless at all) has the potential to find accommodation, to change their situation. The 80 year old woman on Pont Notre Dame does not. Her eyes are piercing and sad.

One week down, five to go. My reading skills are much improved, but I still struggle to comprehend spoken words. Which frustrates me, as I’d like to have a conversation. I put the radio on first thing this morning but found it difficult to concentrate, and tiring.

After breakfast, I did a little work on my Research Proposal. I don’t have the net here for another week, so now is the time for this. Just me, unconnected, with lots of words to give. With my inability to have conversations, I find I’m writing a lot more – as per my wordy emails and blogging. I also have a written journal, in which writing is easier, and editing is absent, as I’m not thinking about you (the reader). It sits in my backpack and comes out when I stop in gardens and cafés, to rest my feet, or fill my belly.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Découvrir

(Saturday, 18 Oct, 4pm)

...means ‘to discover’. It sums up my day so far.

I accidentally found my favourite café, in the 20eme, called Culture Rapid. It had a bit of a revolutionary themed / DIY art decor. It felt nice, was friendly, with good music (Laurie Anderson when I arrived, followed by some reggae). I ordered a crepe with my coffee, so I could stay a bit longer. They have an evening events program including spoken word, cabaret, and erotic puppetry, so I’ll be making a trip back. And I only found it because I got hopelessly lost, heading to the 3eme (which is in the opposite direction). Thus proving that being lost need not be bad.

On the way to the café I also discovered a Moroccan restaurant, with €6 vegetarian cous cous. I misread the address though, and now I can’t remember where it is. I remember where I thought I was, but of course, that’s where I wasn’t. It was closed then, but should be open now. I think I’ll set out to find it, but that could be a difficult task.

The border of the 11eme and 20eme is another of my favourite spots. There’s a Vietnamese pocket, a Jewish pocket, more African people and shops, a few queers. There’s also a lot of old French traditionals – I liked how Café Progres was only patronised by old white French men.

Another discovery was my new favourite bookshop. The children’s books were amazing, and at one point I had three in my hand. I put two back (for now) after contemplating my suitcase. But I dare say I’ll return. They also had a large Kristeva selection, and cheap! €8.50 for the French version of ‘The Powers of Horror”, which I bought (half the price I’d pay in Australia; and it’s the original French text; and it’s further incentive to learn French).

My final discovery (so far) was an Algerian patisserie. So so unbelievably good! I now want to visit Algeria more than ever. For now I’ll just make do with the sweets. I tried a pistachio one and a hazelnut one (which means there’s approx 45 others I’m yet to taste).

Something’s going on outside. Rue de Filles du Calvaire was blocked off when I passed through, with Police everywhere, and I could here a marching band. Now I can hear street crowds. Maybe it’s some special day. Watching the traffic was quite amusing though. All the side streets had traffic jams that weren’t able to move anywhere, and horn tooting was getting more and more frequent.

Time now to cherche pour les cous cous. And maybe I’ll see what all this racket’s about.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

approaching the Sorbonne

Fri 17th, 5pm.

has it only been three days?

my feet are tired from constant walking. i walk until i'm unquestionably lost, and then i check my map and walk some more. the streets are small, curved, and defy any order. paired with my sense of direction, i'm resigned to always being a bit lost.

i'm now in the 11th arrondissement, where it meets the 10th and 3rd. all three are joined by the Place de la Republique, a junction of many roads. i always feel like i'm on the right one, but i'm always not. so i walk circles for hours, until i check my map.

today i walked over several bridges, and through hoardes of tourists (on Ile de la Cité where Notre Dame is) to meet Alice, whose apartment I'll be staying in for 3 weeks, from Monday.

Alice lives in the 5th arrondissement, right fucking next to the Sorbonne! I was feeling a bit acquainted with Paris, but the 5th did something to me. It seemed obvious that I was approaching a uni hub. And then i passed more and more bookshops, including one just selling 'sciences humaine' texts. they were closed for lunch. just when i was all aflutter with a quickened pulse i walked past a fence signposted 'Square Michel Foucault'. oh my. it was next to College de France. i was early, so walked around the block. students everywhere, and more bookshops. including one with drawers protruding from the shopfront, spilling books onto the street.

Alice was nice. she's an archaeologist and studies at the College de France. she's from Italy, but has lived in Spain, US, Egypt, and now France. She speaks 4 languages, but says Italian doesn't count, as that's her native tongue. she speaks a lot, with intensity, and that was hard to digest after days of no conversation. i'll meet her again tomorrow, and this time we'll speak more French, less English.

she tells me you're not allowed to enter the Sorbonne without ID to show that you're a student. damn! and sure enough, security guards were checking everyone.

I'm eating too much cheese. this morning i woke up with a tummy ache. but then i ate chocolate for breakfast, and an apple tartlet. and just now, more cheese. and now i sink into this mattress, close to sleep.

Friday, October 17, 2008

day by day

Day 2: October 16, 6:54am

I like the sound of sirens here. Not so high-pitched and disruptive. Loud yet low. Almost calming in comparison.

Everything i have here is constructed through comparison. The sirens, the people, the hotel furniture. I have a long pillow that is the width of the bed, instead of the 2 pillows i would have in Australia. I’m used to stacking them to prop myself up as i type, but can’t do this here.

Nothing is new in the sense that i can compare everything to something. But much is different. And this i like. I like not quite knowing how i feel about a place. I don’t wish to be able to make ‘knowing’ statements about Paris or Parisians. I don’t need to know whether i like them or not. I’m ambivalent. I’m an outsider. I’m here to discover things, mostly about me. it’s unlikely that visiting a monument will help me to do so.

Last night i walked to Ile Saint Louis, then crossed another bridge to Notre Dame. It was impressive, yes. But frustrating, because i wanted to look at the stone work up close. I wanted to touch and look at the figures up high. The carvings, the shapes; all so beautiful, out of reach. Lots of tourists took photos. How many photos of the Notre Dame can there be? To fit the entire thing onto a photograph you would need to stand far away from it. What’s the point? The beauty is in the detail, and the hands and lives of those that carved it. Photography can’t capture that. As a concept, photography serves only to erase it. To put gloss where there is none.

And my comparisons extend to other tourists. I want to disassociate myself from them. Like the guy also buying novels out front of a shop last night. He jumped in to look from the row of books i was looking at, then said ‘sorry’. I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to out myself as English-speaking, and therefore, like him. i also hated the people riding bikes slowly, distracted by monuments. I hated all people with cameras, people reading plaques on walls, people milling about, having stepped off buses. Though i did like the girl reading her maps on Ile Saint Louis. She was alone, without camera, somewhat discrete, like me. i position myself as a model visitor to this place, but when i open my mouth and try to speak, or try to hear words, i am just as much a nuisance as the rest of them.

I try to blend in, but i know that i cannot. I think of people telling me i look French. I recall three girls on the seat near the old Hunter St Post Office, and how one said “are you French?” That was years ago, seemingly trivial, but has stayed with me. I guess i found it flattering. I want to be French, partly because i want to be ‘other’. And perhaps this is an other that i can get away with (according to those girls).

But i also want to be Henry Miller, Anais Nin, and other others. In my travels i think of their stories. Their love/hate of Paris, but how it eventually wins them over. And how it’s not so much about Paris but the people they meet, and the surroundings that cushion their meetings, desires, writings. I’m being hopelessly nostalgic, and do understand that the years around and between the wars are different to today. The banding together of artists and misfits can’t happen like it once did. Paris cannot provide me with access to another time. There is no Henry, June and Anais today.

After a nap yesterday, i felt itchy for a second, and immediately concluded that this was a Henry Miller (bed bugs from cheap hotels) experience. But there’s no bugs. Strange that I wanted this, just to be closer to his world. I wonder if i should have brought Tropic of Cancer with me. But maybe i’m better off without it. That could make me more desperate in my wanting to be him. But i can’t not think of him, when all these streets and places are familiar because of his and Anais Nin’s writings. Montmatre, Place de Clichy, Montparnasse... signs of them are everywhere, and remind me of stories i felt close to, the pleasure i had in reading them, the desire to be there. And here i am. but alone and somewhat muted. With no Anais to take me under her wing.


"I've lived out my melancholy youth. I don't give a fuck anymore what's behind me, or what's ahead of me. I'm healthy. Incurably healthy. No sorrows, no regrets. No past, no future. The present is enough for me. Day by day." (Miller, Tropic of Cancer)

Thursday, October 16, 2008

a paris: day one

Being in a place where everyone speaks another language is a new and strange experience for me. it actually started in Singapore, boarding an Air France flight, where all of the attendants spoke French. It was only when you looked dumbstruck that they spoke to you in English. I attempted to ask for red wine, but was met with ‘pardon?’ ‘vin rouge’ – that’s not particularly difficult, but still i failed. Yet, i was sandwiched between 2 guys from Australia, so felt a little embarrassed trying, and didn’t really speak much French after that. I didn’t want to respond in English either, so did lots of pointing and smiling, and muttering under my breath. But when i got off the plane, i echoed their chants of ‘au revoir’. Though i think i said café once instead of coffee. Again, this was repeating what was said to me. i was too scared to come out and say/ask for something fresh, after the red wine thing. Though there is a chance that i’m just speaking really softly, because i’m so embarrassed about how i sound.

My next interaction was with a ticket seller at Charles de gaule airport, for a train to paris. I asked in simple (few words as possible) French, but he responded in English.

I dared myself to ask the woman next to me on the train if it would stop at Chatelet les Halles, even though i knew it would. It went down well, and she was very pleasant. I thanked her and she said something that may roughly translate at “not at all it is my pleasure”. Well, that’s what i read from a few words i got, and the way she said it.

Next was a café in the Marais. I went there because they have wireless internet, but also asked for a coffee, and a plate of three cheeses. I asked for espresso, as i couldn’t remember how to ask for a long black. I suspect it’s cafe noir. But i didn’t want to have that difficult conversation in a small and busy cafe. And cheese. For over $A20. But there was a lot of cheese. And it was good cheese. Some camembert (i think), some goat’s fetta mini-wheels (i think) and some yellow sliced stuff that i couldn’t even guess, but it was nice, and necessary mild next to the other 2. Oh, and i was given a few bits of bread. Not really enough for all that cheese. But i ate it all. Including the mouldy spots on one of the fetta wheels, which didn’t look like the good mould you’re supposed to eat, but i thought surely they wouldn’t give it to me if you shouldn’t. Who am i to question the French on cheese mould. Unless the guy was really offended by my softly spoken and broken French.

I’m concerned that i’m rude when i attempt French, as i say basic words, the most direct formation, and was forgetting to smile and say merci. So merci is my new favourite word. I said it to a man in the cafe who stepped aside as i was leaving, to let me pass. Again, he came back with something elaborate and exquisitely pleasant, like my train friend. So far i’m more inclined to think that Parisians are incredibly nice, unlike the cultural stereotype.

The boy on the desk of the hotel i’m staying in was also very nice. His English is almost as bad as my French, so it was good to have a conversation that wasn’t only challenging for me. he didn’t understand my initial request for “une chambre” though. What am i doing wrong with that? So simple.

But again, very nice. And again, it was tiring. I left my bag here, went for more walking until the room was cleaned, went to the supermarket. I was pleased that the girl on the check out was disinterested and didn’t say hi to anyone. It made things easier. Then i had another chat with the boy on reception, and then the cleaners. With one cleaner, i realised the value of charade like gestures. I asked where the shower was (douche). She didn’t get it. “wash” “bath chambre”... then she went on to say “pour douche” (2 handed gesture of water trickling onto head) “un, deux” (pointing downstairs, but also counting the two with her fingers). She was lovely. they all are.

I’m very tired and think i’ll sleep now, even though it’s only 1pm. Though i can’t even begin to count the hours in which i haven’t slept. I gained 9 hours, but slept about 1.5 hours on the planes.

Friday, October 10, 2008

shoes too bright for paris

today my french work colleague commented on how bright my green shoes are. he said that nobody in paris wears shoes like this. hmm... really? i will stand out.

we chatted about my flat-searching and i showed him where i might be staying. he told me about the good things around this area - the markets, a garden, good walks, proximity to bars. i asked what his favourite bar was, and he said Open Café. he also recommended Raidd Bar, where you get to watch men showering behind glass walls. i think i'll have to check that one out. it's not often you get to watch men shower while you sip your gin and tonic.

and then he says "oh yeah, sex clubs" and starts web-searching some more, leaning over me, into me, in my glass-walled office. did i mention he's married to the boss. it was strange, amusing, and slightly hot. i secretly wanted people to walk past, see how close we were, and suspect that something was going on.

tomorrow's my last day.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

close to away

this time next week... i don't know where i'll be. singapore? paris? somewhere above the indian ocean?

i won't be here though.

i'm starting to feel it. somewhat excited, somewhat scared. at the moment the cup is half full.

housemate just assured me that 6 weeks will pass quickly and that i'll meet a lot of people because i'm traveling alone. that was comforting. i've been a little concerned about getting lonely. but yeah, i will make friends. it's what i do here, so why not there? though i don't wanna make friends with english speaking tourists, so will have to get a better handle on the language so i can befriend some french types.

i think that the people around me are more excited than i am. they want to be me. and sometimes i feel like handing over my ticket. not that i have an actual ticket that i can hold in my hand. maybe if i did, i'd be holding it right now, and getting excited.

my godmother rang last night to have a chat before i left. i haven't spoken to her in years, it seems. she warned me about being ripped off by shopkeepers, like she was in italy. she told me how she bought red glassware, but they wrapped up the cheap green stuff. so she went back and said "i didn't fuckin buy this".

it was nice to speak to her. she asked if mark was going as well. that was nice too, as i've never spoken to her about mark before. but she knows cos she's close to mum. and she's cool. and she says fuck (unlike my mum).

Monday, October 6, 2008

masculinity is dead

today i was on a panel talking about masculinity and zine making. it was an interesting experience. as usual, i came away thinking about all the things i wanted to say but didn't. things to fill in the gaps. that's always the way.

to some extent it felt like i was on the wrong panel. the other boys had no difficulty talking about 'dominant masculinity' and how they tried to reject it. i was unable to speak to this. i could have said i had a problem with this concept (which i said of many other statements made), but i didn't. i wanted to say there's no such thing as dominant masculinity. i wanted to challenge the binaries that were being thrown about, the sense of them vs us - gay/straight, male/female.... but i didn't. or maybe i kind of attempted to, but i don't think i was understood (which could be my fault).

i was most comfortable when we strayed from the topic. yes, let's talk about sex instead. and porn. i can talk about that! only at the end when someone asked a question relating to zines did i realise that zines should have been the focal point of this panel. talking through our zines to discuss our grapplings with gender. rather than the sometimes-macho assertions and grand statements that fell effortlessly into microphones.

a statement was made that there have been no good books on masculinity since the 60s. i was a little fucked off about that. but i'll channel this into something positive (and rebuke this statement in the privacy and comfort of my armchair) by now giving some recommendations for some decent summer masculinities reading.

female masculinity - judith halberstam (1998)
i think this is my favourite book about masculinities because it challenges the idea that masculinities only belong to men. it refers to masculinity as embodied, performed, and sometimes female. nice.

the end of masculinity - john macinnes (1998)
this book nicely frames masculinity as ideology, a fantasy, an uninhabitable space. here, masculinity does not (and cannot) belong to individuals, so challenging it as an individual level (as r.w. connell does) is problematic.

white - richard dyer (1997)
not specifically about masculinity, more about whiteness, but nonetheless a critique of the masculinity of whiteness, and a good investigation of how racial, sexual, gender ideologies tend to support and strengthen each other, and the privilege of rational disembodiment.

male matters - calvin thomas (1995)
draws from irigaray, hegel and others to look at male anxiety, particularly around the body, and its relationship (and knowability) through language and desire.

homosexual desire - guy hocquenghem (1972)
hocquenghem believes the centre of the male body is the anus - a site of eroticism and anxiety. an argument furthered by leo bersani's 'is the rectum a grave?' again, a discussion of masculinity (like all the best ones) that doesn't set out to define it, but question it through discussion of what might be considered non-masculine (in this case homo desire) but indeed is.

perhaps i should have read an excerpt from the above macinnes book at today's panel. something along the lines of:

"...masculinity does not exist as the property, character trait or aspect of individuals. This means that trying to define masculinity, or masculinities is a fruitless task, and also that explanations of how men came to have much greater power, resources and status than women in the modern world which rely upon the concept of masculinity used in this way are unlikely to be helpful. I argue that masculinity exists only as various ideologies or fantasies about what men should be like, which men and women develop to make sense of their lives."

but alas, i did not. and i was very conscious of keeping it non-academic, given that most people (panelists included) did not view gender through the lens of theory. as a result, i was somewhat speechless, or conscious that my words would not be heard in the way i want them to. i'm yet to get a handle on translating my theory-speak to everyday conversation.

not that there weren't some interesting things said, because there was. and maybe this isn't my audience anyway.

but anyway, my day improved. i got some nice feedback about my new zine by a friend whose words mean a lot to me. so the panel was quickly forgotten. except it wasn't. because there are good books on masculinity, dammit! and there's likely to be a thousand more that i don't know of.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

taunted by jacques

it's an odd evening. i'm home alone, eating snacks and cooking dinnner. trying to use up as many perishables as i can since i won't be here for 6 days. i know that these things shouldn't stress me, but inevitably they do. my upbringing makes me feel bad when i waste. throwing food out is evil.

anyway, i'm cooking and eating and working on the kitchen table. working tonight, so there's less to do tomorrow. and still so much to do. and it also stresses me out.

i have some wine, and that makes me less anxious. instead, i fall into the music that jacques (the ipod) plays for me. it's mostly very good. and it makes me want to be around people. i want to talk about this suede song with my britpop buddy. i want to dance at thorn st. i want to reminisce and sing.

after eating all i can, and scrawling on many pages (bigger, curlier writing now after 2 glasses of wine), i'm thinking it's time for bed. i'm washing up, packing up, and i think of paris. and i get scared. 6 weeks suddenly feels like a long time to be away from all this, from friends, from my current daily rituals. what if i don't like it? what if i get really sad and lonely?

and then jacques plays 'lonely in paris' by gloss. no joke. it spins me out. and it makes me more anxious. maybe i should leave jacques behind. right now, he is not my friend.

wanting to say 'shut the fuck up'

officemate is back from holiday. officemate has been talking for near an hour with non-officemate about said holiday in israel, in my room, right beside me. i'm hoping to get a lot of work done today. i eventually leave, come to the library, to work from a quiet space.

they were talking about issues of israel and palestine. they were talking about how bad it was, and how officemate's israeli partner needs to understand how his thinking is wrong, so that the warring can stop. and i'm trying to work, but listening (how can i not when its right fucking next to me), wondering 'who the fuck are you to tell him how it is? with your fucking west-knows-best understanding of cultural tolerance'.

but he knows best. and he calls his boyfriend a racist and tries to coerce him into understanding the truth. but not really getting that there can be more than one truth. blind to his cultural imperialism.

he is angry that his boyfriend thinks the family of a person who commits a crime should have their house bulldozed. he tells boyfriend that groups of people don't do bad, it's individuals in groups that do bad. he says "how would you like to pay for your father's sins?" in other words he argues for the commonsense of his own culture's neo-liberal individualist beliefs as more correct than those of other cultures. boyfriend should have slapped you, i reckon. your version of family is not like his. nor is your version of culture, religion, justice, etc. and why should you tell him that your version is better than his, when visiting his country, staying with his family, wearing your oxford st shoes?

hmm... why am i so angry? why am i any better than him anyway? not better, just less annoying. i hope.

time to work. must work hard and fast from now til tomorrow. i can't wait til i'm in newcastle, with mark. around friends, not working, being relaxed, sipping beer, in the sun, smiling. ahh...

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

meeting my doppleganger

on the weekend i met someone who was like me. i think maybe he's the english version of me.

he loves britpop and our conversations tended to always end up there. he gets it. or rather, he experienced it (and continues to experience it) like me. we also share a deep love for the 90s tv show this life. in chatting about these and other things, i felt like a lot of stuff needn't be said or explained, cos he knew how it was. it was comfortable. but at the same time it wasn't, cos he was too much like me.

talking made me realise how much british pop culture i've lapped up over the years. like him. except he was there. and he was seeing all these gigs that i could only ever dream about. bands that never came to australia. he was being the me that i could not be.

he has a skinny body, an unusual face, a misshapen mouth. just like me. in looking at him, i could not tell if i found him attractive or not. it changed as we spoke. some moments he was beautiful, others he was not. it's similar to how i see myself, in photos and mirrors, and in general. maybe it's how we all view ourselves. but it's generally not how i view others. sure, i might not position people at either end of the beautiful-ugly spectrum, but it's rare that someone should occupy both extremes.

i liked his northern accent. i don't have one of those.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

all in my head

it's now less than 3 weeks to france. i'm not ready. less than 3 weeks to finish my job, to write a thesis proposal (one that deserves an upgrade to phd), and get myself sorted. i'm very unsorted.

i'm leaky and emotional. i have hayfever. liquid spills from nose and eyes. often on the verge of tears, but i don't know if they're real or not. like my fears.

i'm stressing about my research proposal. twice, a supervisor has indicated that things are perhaps not as bad as they are 'in my head'. what does this mean? am i delusional, depressed, neurotic? probably. but are these things not real? how does it help to know that things are in my head, as though outside any shared reality, and therefore situating me as somewhat unhinged from any position of knowing?

yesterday i went shopping for jeans and shoes (intact and comfortable, for france). i was sneezing, dizzy, blurry, drippy. and angry. i hate shopping. we were in the city, and for much of the time i wanted to punch things and/or people. but i did neither. i just persisted for as long as i could, and mark bore the brunt of my agitatation. i did warn him, but it wasn't fair, and i really should have shopped alone.

this morning we fought again. the look of his face, standing near the busstop, appealed to my paranoia that things are 'all in my head'. i'm being neurotic, stupid, irrational, emotive, etc. i can see this. but it doesn't help me to know this.

yet, i do think there is some basis for my feelings. my anger doesn't come from nowhere. this morning it was triggered by a conversation in my kitchen. mark was asked something on the basis of his 'profession', but admitted (not at the time, but to me later) that he knew little about the matter. neither of them did. i knew something of the topic though, and offered my understanding. but this was ignored. the discussion kept happening, and nothing i said was heard. admittedly, i didn't situate my knowledge by explaining my past experience in the matter. but that's not my style. most people i surround myself with tend to hear me, and i need not outline my position of authority before i speak. but perhaps it was necessary this morning. i was a ghost in the room.

why talk about things if you don't know what you're talking about? why ignore people if they don't assert things the way you do? i believe this is the style of a somewhat masculine engagement with things. the assertion of knowledge regardless of whether it's there or not. from my perspective (need i really say so?) this is what was happening. i was able to leave the room without anyone noticing. i was angered, without anyone realising. because there is no emotional space in such a conversation. it's just words upon words. and i become my mother, wiping the bench while the men talk business. getting upset, but with no discernable reason amongst other people present.

and then i have to deal with the 'fact' that as i'm the only one feeling this, it undoubtably is 'all in my head'. my head is the cause of the problem, so it's up to me to fix it, to get over it, to think straight. but perhaps the real lesson here is to understand that if i'm emotional, then i can't trust myself to know what's really going on. therefore, best to leave the capable people to speak. best to go on wiping the bench, reading my novels, dreaming of france...

Sunday, September 14, 2008

a waltz, a dance, and a loaf of bread

why did i ask that my blog address be published next to my name on a festival program that's also online? that was so stupid. i'm now concerned that certain people (those who may not get it) may discover this version of me. including people i've written about. oh what price fame?

please read the sarcasm in that last sentence. but yeah, i'm concerned that complications may arise if people do find me here. i've been found in the past. anonymity is not really an option these days. or it is, but i'm not clever enough to maintain it. and most people are so fucking precious about needing to be loved and therefore take offense at discovering non-lovely observations about them. i know i am.

i'm lying on bed in a singlet and jeans. a singlet! it's been balmy and stormy. but my eyes still itch. i'm thinking of taking a nap, even though it's kinda late for nap-taking. it's that or write my research proposal, so a nap is the easy option. lest i start thinking about the other option to the point that i can't sleep.

nice weekend. i danced last night in a basement with lots of lovely boys and girls, including mark. and wendy james was my dj.

possibly my favourite thing of yesterday was being handed a free loaf of sourdough bread out the door of the already-closed bourke street bakery. an outstretched arm offering bread: a beautiful gesture.

the other highlight was seeing waltz with bashir. my new best film of the year. i struggle to find words to speak of it. other than "see it!"

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

today i hate...

my workmate. i discovered a document on our desktop that he's working on which suggests that he's writing (and disregarding) the section of the report that I've been working on. hmm...

there is hierarchy at play.

he has referred to himself as the writer of the report on several occasions but i shrugged this off. he's also mentioned that he'd like to get a couple of papers out of this. hmm...

when he's around i'm the student, the temp, the person whom he sometimes speaks to as senior/mentor/doctor. when he actually works, that is.

i want to ask my supervisor for clarification on my role, and on who's doing what, but i fear that i might come across as bitchy and competitive. am i? i don't think so. i think i'm concerned that all the work i'm doing is in vain. that my stresses have been pointless. or that he will appropriate it for his own career advancement. this thought, with the thought of how difficult it's been juggling this job and my studies, makes me want to scream and kick holes in walls.

and there's more...

he came in this afternoon (he generally doesn't work on a tuesday), brought another guy into our room, introduced us, and said 'we're going to gossip'. they sat behind me (whilst i read over his stupid lit review) and talked about boys. seriously, they were teenage girls. competitively they discussed how 'in need' they each were, given their current separation from their boyfriends. they boasted about remaining faithful, yet whinged about how difficult that was. they giggled and fussed for what seemed like an hour. i worked. i fumed. did they not notice me? as if i wasn't hating him enough already.

and he's working again tomorrow. grr...

Monday, September 8, 2008

thinking through my badness

(written yesterday)

France approaches. I’m in Melbourne, on Jess’s couch. It’s raining and the taste of peppermint tea lingers.

Tomorrow I’m back in Sydney. I’m now doing work I brought with me – something I needed to do this weekend, but of course de-prioritised for all the fun stuff. For conversation, eating, drinking, etc. I love my Melbourne friends, without whom I could not say I love Melbourne.

Things happened this weekend that I didn’t anticipate. It seems too easy (and problematic) to blame the drugs and alcohol. Though I think they contributed to my lack of inhibitions. Last night, with the drugs wearing off, I was angry with myself. I wondered why I needed to engage in what’s considered to be self-destructive behaviours. There was no questioning at that point, last night, that this was another case of me ‘acting out’.

But now I question this idea of ‘acting out’. What does this mean? Could it be that I’m confusing inhibitions with morals? That my lack of inhibitions (enabling me to engage in sexual excursions that I would otherwise rationally avoid) represent a lack of morality? But since when have I been into morals anyway?

I tend to distance myself from traditional versions of morality. Promiscuity, drug-taking, and all the other supposedly dangerous stuff can be good, right? How else do we learn about our limits, our desires, our social positioning, if we don’t find ourselves in potentially destructive situations? But maybe destruction is too negative a word. Maybe it’s more like re-construction – a process of renovation, not simply falling apart. Which we (I mean, I) sometimes feel that I’m doing.

I’m not going to describe the events of Friday night / Saturday morning except to say that they were both hilarious and sad, exhilarating and trivial. It depends on the position from which I tell the story, or who I tell. It’s certainly not a story for Mum. Yet it got a good reception yesterday when shared with a friend in a Carlton cafe, and another in that Lygon St restaurant with a Ferrari suspended from the ceiling. Nevertheless, it’s always the abridged version – more tidy and clean than the experience itself.

Perhaps, in a vulnerable state like yesterday’s ‘come down’, reasons for my behaviours are sought and then found in the concept of ‘lacks’ – holes in my self that need to be located, fixed, sealed off from a world of dangerous penetrations. This, and all the other confusions around sex and drugs that I’ve been immersed in since birth, is always lurking in the shadows. Always ready to arrest me and make me feel guilty, bad, corrupted.

Thinking myself bad is the easy option. Thinking through this badness is not so easy. It would be easier to apologise and say it will never happen again. But to whom am I apologising? I haven’t broken any agreements. I’m just applying somebody else’s moral codes to my situation, to tell me that I’ve failed myself.

Danger is exhilarating. I’m reminded of this each time I feel a sting of pain in my slightly damaged wrist. Or when I catch sight of scratches on the surface of my skin, unsure how they got there. But maybe that’s the point – we can’t always know how things get there. That’s what makes them interesting. That’s what keeps me writing, thinking, feeling my way around.

France is approaching. My conversations over the course of the week keep pointing in that direction, so now I’m more aware then ever that I’ll soon be in another unfamiliar place. It’s a bit scary, but it’s good.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

my body is a tomb

so tired. still at work. the hours drag, and i'm slouching heavily (almost horizontal) in this chair.

this morning, whilst sitting in a lecture my supervisor was taking, my neurons were firing, and i knew what i wanted to write here. i took a few notes - let's see what i can make of them.

i wrote "my body is a tomb"

she mentioned Schilder (see last post) and the body schema. and i thought about how things live and die in my memory. the traces remain; or not. my body remembers things; or forgets. or thinks it remembers but may have it wrong. because my memories are impure and form around my interactions with others, and their words, ideas, memories, touch. i have many phantoms.

she talked about the necessity to discard things in order to take in new things. we can't know everything. we can't be everything. so we sort, limit, and shift. we move in order to transcend. so that we can continue the process of becoming. a friend recently wrote (or maybe i wrote it to him) "just keep moving". it makes more sense today.

lately i've been thinking about old emails, and how i wanted to save, catalogue, preserve them. but they are dead. they weren't sent or received by the me of today, but yesterday. and he is long gone, half-forgotten, dull. better to dream about the emails still to come.

this week i was invited to a reunion-style gathering in october. the thought of it sent a shiver up my spine. the invite arrived from an ex who moves slower than i do, in the sense that she lives upon her memories, wishes to reignite traces, talks of times past. and this i find sad. memories can be nice, but surely the more you prop yourself up with them the more you cease to be here now. it's tomorrow that counts. and i point my desires towards tomorrow.

not that i wish to erase things. i like the traces. i like the rings that form around my tree trunk self. they give me character, remind me of my growth, they give me the shape that i find myself in today. but they do not nourish me, like the soil and the air.

in the lecture, my supervisor also spoke of the alienation that can come with being the only educated person in the family. that's me. but it's not just family - it's some friends too. and it's my ex, whose invite i haven't responded to.

this week i finished Crime and Punishment. i tingle each time i recall the following line: "seven years, only seven years!" and for this reason, on the basis of this statement and the context in which it falls (i can't give it away - read the book!), i know that i can't go to this gathering. i know the direction of my desires.

and i know not to attend for the sake of being nice.