neither here nor there

yesterday i went to coogee and had an urge to write. but it was short lived. i only got as far as:

"I've been to Coogee. I need not come back. Though maybe I'll come back here to sit on this rock. My place on the edge of Coogee. By the sea. Where the wind pushes away the sounds of Coogee."

i started the day slowly. in bed until after noon. unsure of what i might do. where i might go. fatigued. i'd been promising myself a walk to the beach, so that would be my task. and some grocery shopping.

i walked up and down hills to find the ocean. so many houses and apartments but no sign of life. where are the shops, cafes, and services that coogee people make use of?

i found the ocean, and it was quite spectacular. i then set out for breakfast and coffee. the food was rather good, but tainted by the staff who were abrupt and without smiles. i'm reading about the foreigner (kristeva) and i am that foreigner. i am feeling insignificant and without voice. lost and incomplete. i eat, drink, and read some more. it is here that i get an urge to write.

but the pencil stops short, on my rock. and the voices of tourists distract me (why sit near me? get your own goddam fucking space). i hate. another trait of kristeva's foreigner. and i internalise this hatred, for i lack the foundations from which to speak it. so i read some more. then walk away, back to randwick.

my fragility continued throughout the day until i booked my ticket to france. 6 weeks abroad. 12 weeks from now.

kristeva writes:

"Nowhere is one more a foreigner than in France" (p38).

"And yet, one is nowhere better as a foreigner than in France. Since you remain uncurably different and unacceptable, you are an object of fascination: one notices you, one talks about you, one hates you or admires you, or both at the same time" (p39).