slept in again. lenny and i tend to fall into bed at around 2am, so i guess that's why. and it's overcast today. i counted the church bells at 11, then again at 12. shortly afterward i'm here in the kitchen, reading excited messages about nye on facebook. yes, it's almost time to start 2011 there. but i have 11 hours to go.
life's good when your main concern in the morning is whether to finish off the rye bread or go and get some fresh croissants. i try to convince myself that the latter is necessary for this 'special day'. but i don't really believe that, so rye it is.
last night i had another dream which involved something sexual with someone i dislike very much. that's two nights in a row. these are people i've spoken and written about in unfavourable terms. yet in each of the dreams they revealed some frailty, need, and affection. perhaps the lesson is to accept that bullying and egotism come from insecurities, and are not innate in such people. a nice message from my unconscious, but really, i could do without the imagined sensation of their bodies pressed into mine. even if was enjoying it (until the rupture of waking).
my 5 best albums of 2010:
of montreal - fake priest
los campesinos! - romance is boring
arcade fire - the suburbs
stars - the five ghosts
beach house - teen dream
i can't imagine liking 2010 half as much if this music didn't exist. i recall getting stars and arcade fire around the same time, and alternating the two. stars plays as i walk to bourke st bakery for a loaf of bread. it's not a short walk - long enough to hear most of the album, there and back. and i step to the beat of a more pop sound from them, which i decide, en route, that i'm happy with. yes, this is a good album. and it's all about ghosts. and nobody can see me when i'm plugged into the stereo, walking this path, in the late morning of a weekday.
arcade fire's 'ready to start' had me holding my fists in my pockets, lest i should start punching the air at the bus stop. this is the sound of breaking through something, a wall, a roof, a barrier in place for so long that it appears to be a normal obstacle that one cannot challenge. but here it is. a blend of anger and hope, but mainly the latter, and a promise of something lovely that might come with persistence, determination, and saying yes to what i might otherwise fear. at the airport i felt ready to start, even in the absence of this song.
i show joal some beach house earlier in the year. i'd been listening to it on the way to his house, once again floating along the streets of marrickville. he seemed to like it. we had coffee and talked about boys, and then i played it some more. later i would miss out on tickets to the sydney gig, which is around the time i return home. later still (as in last week) i would be fucking a beautiful skinny man to this album. the sound moved with his body and mine, and then evaporated with the smoke floating from his cigarette as he crouched on the bed, naked and softened. he shows me the view of the sacre coeur from his balcony, and farewells me into the night.
of montreal is when jessie is away and the house is often empty and so the stereo volume increases as i eat my breakfast and this album is played. it's waking up rebellious, playing sounds and lyrics in which nothing is sacred. fuck this, fuck everything, and oh my, this bit sounds like prince. yes. it's a big dose of pleasure in my own company, in my space, with a soundtrack fitting for me, then and there, in my beautiful discontent. fuck everything indeed.
and then there's los campesinos! which was a high for pretty much the entire year (although it's been absent for the last month). this and of montreal are my two obsessions of 2010. i'm more of a missionary with this band, and introduce it to friends, all of whom seem to like it. i feel myself smiling on the bus. i watch myself almost collide with a car entering enmore rd because i'm listening too damn hard. but i don't flinch. car can wait. and i decide on a bus heading to uni that i'll make a zine of collage to this album (for this album) because it's messy, disordered, chaotic, and amusing. and it's where my life exactly was, at that point. but maybe i'm coming out of that stage now. so maybe the zine can't happen. and maybe i'm ready for something new that can shape itself around my 2011, whatever that may taste like.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
finding things in the snow
it's zero degrees with light snow. once again i'm sitting on the bed. i've just eaten a croissant. i drink coffee. this all feels pleasant.
the snow fascinates me. i can't stop being in awe of the whiteness on the ground, in the sky, or the floating particles in the air. but it's also the cold that arrives with it - that which makes you lift your shoulders, put our hands into fists, and walk briskly (yet carefully, so as not to slip).
my boots are too tight, but hopefully they'll stretch to accommodate me. i like that wearing them enables me to tread in puddles and ice without concern for getting wet toes. i like the noise of the zips when i get home and shed them along with jacket, hat and scarf. it's a ritual i'm getting used to. another comfort, like the food, the snow, and the sound of my own voice reading aloud from newspapers and books (my school time). i read slowly, defying all punctuation, like i would if i was 5. and i guess i'm a child here. my gloved hands and restrictive clothing are that of a child. as is my wonder. and my wide eyed lust for knowledge.
i've been invited to a xmas/birthday party of my landlord, but i'm not sure. it made me anxious at first. i'll have to be social. i'll have to communicate. i'll feel dumb when they speak french. but i guess i should go, if only for an hour.
yesterday i shared some naan with may, an old friend from another life. it was a lovely reminder that i'm not the only one changing. sometimes i arrogantly believe that nobody but me (and close friends) are changing, complex, beings. and i guess i feel that my trajectory is special. but it's really not. because we're all spiraling, and this is good, because sometimes it means we can meet again, au hasard (randomly) and differently.
and today i have a date with a man whose name i don't even know. he's not from here either. he'll speak with a spanish accent. again, two strangers at a table. paris belongs to no-one.
the snow fascinates me. i can't stop being in awe of the whiteness on the ground, in the sky, or the floating particles in the air. but it's also the cold that arrives with it - that which makes you lift your shoulders, put our hands into fists, and walk briskly (yet carefully, so as not to slip).
my boots are too tight, but hopefully they'll stretch to accommodate me. i like that wearing them enables me to tread in puddles and ice without concern for getting wet toes. i like the noise of the zips when i get home and shed them along with jacket, hat and scarf. it's a ritual i'm getting used to. another comfort, like the food, the snow, and the sound of my own voice reading aloud from newspapers and books (my school time). i read slowly, defying all punctuation, like i would if i was 5. and i guess i'm a child here. my gloved hands and restrictive clothing are that of a child. as is my wonder. and my wide eyed lust for knowledge.
i've been invited to a xmas/birthday party of my landlord, but i'm not sure. it made me anxious at first. i'll have to be social. i'll have to communicate. i'll feel dumb when they speak french. but i guess i should go, if only for an hour.
yesterday i shared some naan with may, an old friend from another life. it was a lovely reminder that i'm not the only one changing. sometimes i arrogantly believe that nobody but me (and close friends) are changing, complex, beings. and i guess i feel that my trajectory is special. but it's really not. because we're all spiraling, and this is good, because sometimes it means we can meet again, au hasard (randomly) and differently.
and today i have a date with a man whose name i don't even know. he's not from here either. he'll speak with a spanish accent. again, two strangers at a table. paris belongs to no-one.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
percolate
i'm enjoying this moment. it consists of me sitting in a fold-out-couch bed in an apartment on the border of paris, just outside the 19eme. it's cold outside, temperature gauge at the window says 5 degrees, which is warmer than yesterday, and explains why most of the snow has melted. the heating is on. i just made a percolated coffee and i sip from a yellow mug. i eat white chocolate with whole hazelnuts. i woke at 5am, unable to get back to sleep, still jetlagged. i've chatted to people back home and we compared notes on where we're at. it's almost xmas. a playful argument with essy is imbued with film and book recommendations, which i can't keep track of. i don't record them, but i know he'll remind me again. or maybe we'll watch some of these films back in sydney. i can't believe he didn't like crime and punishment. jessie is sick in bed, i'm just in bed. and there's intimacy and familiarity in such conversations which are as comforting as this coffee. i've not had coffee since i arrived here. the bad coffee in toyko made me give it up. and now i'm tasting a new, yet familiar, flavour. just as i'm tasting snow for the first time, and this apartment, which is strange to me despite my clothes hanging from the curtain rail, shower, and drying rack by the heater. since i stopped chatting (or rather, typing) to the folk back home, i can hear the silence. and my fingers tapping keys sound similar to snow tapping rooftops. but there's no snow today, just a softer shade of cold. and there's me, alone (but not alone) in this apartment. and there's me moving to the kitchen shortly, to take another cup of coffee.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
timeless, rainless
today the rain was gone. no umbrella necessary, though i packed one just in case. most of the time my jacket was in my hand. yet i bought another jacket, for france. it's green and water/snow proof. now i can conquer the world. it was pretty cheap too. i also picked up some warm socks. and a bunch of stationery etc - small things that will fit in my suitcase. and then i discovered the supermarket around the corner. just now i'm eating spinach with sesame paste, and some sweet potato thing. i'm sitting in the common area because the loud canadians went to bed. i suspect everyone in my room is scared of them, so we read or do stuff on our beds. the new french couple are skyping with someone in their room, probably unaware that the walls are paper thin and everyone can hear them. the quiet cute boy just reemerged and is on one of the common room PCs. we sit and type, back to back. still no words from him today but there's always tomorrow.
my phone died so i can't even use it as a clock. this means i never know the time. i check on my ipod intermittently. i did so tonight at Roppongi and freaked out that it was 11.30. i read something about the trains stopping at midnight so i scurried off to the train. only at the station did i realise that the ipod had reverted to sydney time. i knew i got quite distracted by the light show i happened upon, but yes, not that distracted. then i walked home from Ueno station and stopped by the supermarket for a can of Asahi for 198 yen. nice.
my phone died so i can't even use it as a clock. this means i never know the time. i check on my ipod intermittently. i did so tonight at Roppongi and freaked out that it was 11.30. i read something about the trains stopping at midnight so i scurried off to the train. only at the station did i realise that the ipod had reverted to sydney time. i knew i got quite distracted by the light show i happened upon, but yes, not that distracted. then i walked home from Ueno station and stopped by the supermarket for a can of Asahi for 198 yen. nice.
Monday, December 13, 2010
tokyo rain
it rained all day in tokyo. but it wasn't too heavy. it was, however, very cold. i almost bought a pair of gloves but they were average so i decided to hold out for mittens. the search continues tomorrow.
i'm lying atop a bunk bed which is my bed for these five days. people are chatting in the common area (canadians, i think) and i've opted for a quieter spot. especially after my day. not that i spoke to anyone. but i absorbed a lot. and i can't really give words to it because i'm still dizzy. and i'm wary of clichés about this city.
i feel dumb here, not being able to communicate. i smiled and nodded and muttered. at least in paris i can form words. and i can read signs.
i wish i brought my sound recorder. because tokyo for me is about sounds. the piped music on some streets, musical tones at train stations, traffic lights that chirp like birds, music from random trucks. then there's the jazz music where i had lunch, the mix of japanese and western pop where i had dinner. there's spruikers on microphones, clashing mayhem spilling from gamer venues, and the girly japanese pop coming from what i assume to be strip clubs.
then there's the silence on these streets. and also in trains. lots of people being quiet together, which i guess makes it a bit easier to be mute. i love that you're not allowed to speak on your phone on the trains. and better still, phones must be put on silent. i see people talking on phones in the street, but i never hear them ring. it's lovely.
there's a cute boy lying in the bed below me. a european, but he never speaks, so i can't tell where he's from. his awkwardness makes him more cute. today we showered in the same room, with a couple of curtains separating our naked bodies. maybe he will talk tomorrow.
tomorrow i'll search for a vegetarian restaurant. the internet says there are many, but i saw none. and i spent too much of the day smelling and seeing food that i can't eat, then searching for what i can. as food is my main source of comfort, this made me somewhat anxious.
i'm lying atop a bunk bed which is my bed for these five days. people are chatting in the common area (canadians, i think) and i've opted for a quieter spot. especially after my day. not that i spoke to anyone. but i absorbed a lot. and i can't really give words to it because i'm still dizzy. and i'm wary of clichés about this city.
i feel dumb here, not being able to communicate. i smiled and nodded and muttered. at least in paris i can form words. and i can read signs.
i wish i brought my sound recorder. because tokyo for me is about sounds. the piped music on some streets, musical tones at train stations, traffic lights that chirp like birds, music from random trucks. then there's the jazz music where i had lunch, the mix of japanese and western pop where i had dinner. there's spruikers on microphones, clashing mayhem spilling from gamer venues, and the girly japanese pop coming from what i assume to be strip clubs.
then there's the silence on these streets. and also in trains. lots of people being quiet together, which i guess makes it a bit easier to be mute. i love that you're not allowed to speak on your phone on the trains. and better still, phones must be put on silent. i see people talking on phones in the street, but i never hear them ring. it's lovely.
there's a cute boy lying in the bed below me. a european, but he never speaks, so i can't tell where he's from. his awkwardness makes him more cute. today we showered in the same room, with a couple of curtains separating our naked bodies. maybe he will talk tomorrow.
tomorrow i'll search for a vegetarian restaurant. the internet says there are many, but i saw none. and i spent too much of the day smelling and seeing food that i can't eat, then searching for what i can. as food is my main source of comfort, this made me somewhat anxious.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
itineraries and photocopiers
i have a lot to do. it's boring how much i have to do.
i printed out my flight bookings for the next 2 months. many, but most are local. so many making-the-flight panics to look forward to. mostly i look forward to the flight that lands me at Charles de Gaulle. it's not so far away now.
i just met the new boy at the photocopier. i spied him a couple of weeks ago. so pretty. and today he smiled and said "i don't think we've met". nice accent, beautiful smile, lovely skin tone, and he puts his warm hand in mine. i had a teenage moment of almost skipping down the hallway. too bad i'm about to leave.
back to work...
i printed out my flight bookings for the next 2 months. many, but most are local. so many making-the-flight panics to look forward to. mostly i look forward to the flight that lands me at Charles de Gaulle. it's not so far away now.
i just met the new boy at the photocopier. i spied him a couple of weeks ago. so pretty. and today he smiled and said "i don't think we've met". nice accent, beautiful smile, lovely skin tone, and he puts his warm hand in mine. i had a teenage moment of almost skipping down the hallway. too bad i'm about to leave.
back to work...
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
rolling with the punches
annual review is over. but still some work to do before being a 'satisfactory' student. i need a research question (oops, how did that one slip by?) and i need evidence that i'm applying this. it can be done.
the panel were lovely and made a point to highlight my achievement in continuing despite the difficult patch. they offered solutions to problems, and clear outsider perspectives to what's missing in the project. i was reminded that this doesn't have to be perfect, that this is a difficult task, that the main goal is to 'get the qualification'. i wrote down many points for consideration. but supervisors said nothing to raise my pen. they echoed already written concerns with brutality and gusto. but i've come to expect this now. and i wasn't as in awe as last time. though i did wait in hope that they would say something positive. and i waited...
but these punches i must roll with, as in, i must accept them graciously and use them to propel myself further into my project. but i can also use them to propel myself further away from becoming that type of academic. they are not my friends. with them, i can only ever be professional. i can't make jokes, i can't be scared, i can't lift my armour for them to scratch me. this is horrible, yes, but it's also useful. because i know i don't need them as entirely as i once thought i did. that is, i don't need their love. and maybe i can utilise their punishment for other means. it might make me work harder. it might also help me (projecting beyond this stage) develop an academic trajectory that navigates away from brutality. and to a practice not committed to performing a role, but a text. my writing is my project. the machine that gives me the paper on which to write is of minor importance.
maybe i'm stupid to think that academia is a supportive environment where research and ideas are shared goals through which we might relate to and support each other. maybe i'm stupid for neglecting to see the politics of job insecurity, career trajectories, time limitations, and other unrelenting pressures within the individualising, corporate, university machine. i'm not so stupid now. just a little slow, in my armour.
the panel were lovely and made a point to highlight my achievement in continuing despite the difficult patch. they offered solutions to problems, and clear outsider perspectives to what's missing in the project. i was reminded that this doesn't have to be perfect, that this is a difficult task, that the main goal is to 'get the qualification'. i wrote down many points for consideration. but supervisors said nothing to raise my pen. they echoed already written concerns with brutality and gusto. but i've come to expect this now. and i wasn't as in awe as last time. though i did wait in hope that they would say something positive. and i waited...
but these punches i must roll with, as in, i must accept them graciously and use them to propel myself further into my project. but i can also use them to propel myself further away from becoming that type of academic. they are not my friends. with them, i can only ever be professional. i can't make jokes, i can't be scared, i can't lift my armour for them to scratch me. this is horrible, yes, but it's also useful. because i know i don't need them as entirely as i once thought i did. that is, i don't need their love. and maybe i can utilise their punishment for other means. it might make me work harder. it might also help me (projecting beyond this stage) develop an academic trajectory that navigates away from brutality. and to a practice not committed to performing a role, but a text. my writing is my project. the machine that gives me the paper on which to write is of minor importance.
maybe i'm stupid to think that academia is a supportive environment where research and ideas are shared goals through which we might relate to and support each other. maybe i'm stupid for neglecting to see the politics of job insecurity, career trajectories, time limitations, and other unrelenting pressures within the individualising, corporate, university machine. i'm not so stupid now. just a little slow, in my armour.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
the pinch of time
today i'm feeling the pinch of time. i look over my shoulder to see a looming depreciation of days. i've one month of 'production' left for this year. i hate that it stresses me, i think it should not, and i turn away, rebel, and find refuge elsewhere. yesterday was a day off. i justified this (to myself) on account of working through the weekend. i spent the day with that boy.
(breakfast, sex, lunch, film, walk, gelato, dinner, goodbye) so many hours of us.
around the time the sky darkened i felt pinched again; aware of lost time. already, there is too little time. (use time better. manage it. you're making things impossible. grow up. you're gonna fail.) already, there is too little time. dates are allocated for meetings, conferences, papers, flights. i'm not approaching such events, rather, they're approaching me. everytime i turn around they're closer. statues of wolves like in that kid's game.
and i guess i feel i lack control as well, and so my failure is only a matter of time (catching me). but somewhere, in some moments, i see that it's bullshit and that time need not be a trap. and maybe i can start to use time to control my own process a little more. maybe i can try to deny myself of time spent worrying?
i often worry about the times where i'm distracted from the phd. but maybe the phd itself is the distraction. it certainly makes life less manageable. i mean, why am i now kind of seeing somebody? and why am i leaving the country? sans phd, i'm sure the answers would be more obvious to me.
(breakfast, sex, lunch, film, walk, gelato, dinner, goodbye) so many hours of us.
around the time the sky darkened i felt pinched again; aware of lost time. already, there is too little time. (use time better. manage it. you're making things impossible. grow up. you're gonna fail.) already, there is too little time. dates are allocated for meetings, conferences, papers, flights. i'm not approaching such events, rather, they're approaching me. everytime i turn around they're closer. statues of wolves like in that kid's game.
and i guess i feel i lack control as well, and so my failure is only a matter of time (catching me). but somewhere, in some moments, i see that it's bullshit and that time need not be a trap. and maybe i can start to use time to control my own process a little more. maybe i can try to deny myself of time spent worrying?
i often worry about the times where i'm distracted from the phd. but maybe the phd itself is the distraction. it certainly makes life less manageable. i mean, why am i now kind of seeing somebody? and why am i leaving the country? sans phd, i'm sure the answers would be more obvious to me.
Friday, October 29, 2010
the yellow t-shirt
this morning i wake in his arms in marrickville. tight embraces, chatter, some laughter and kissing. eventually we're in a nearby cafe with bad french toast and average coffee. we kiss on the platform. then i climb the stairs and walk home, wearing his yellow t-shirt. i keep seeing it, and me, in the windows i pass. the familiar and the different. a nice fit.
i should study but i won't. i play loud music and eat toast instead. i still wear the t-shirt which is somewhat tragic but pleasant. it holds me comfortably. a poor substitute for his arms but it'll do for now.
i haven't felt so comfortably held for some time. something nice is taking place. i dismiss my concerns and no longer resist the pull of this.
well, maybe not entirely.
i should study but i won't. i play loud music and eat toast instead. i still wear the t-shirt which is somewhat tragic but pleasant. it holds me comfortably. a poor substitute for his arms but it'll do for now.
i haven't felt so comfortably held for some time. something nice is taking place. i dismiss my concerns and no longer resist the pull of this.
well, maybe not entirely.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
rules for today
one: don't get drunk on a tuesday night.
two: don't try to code data when you're sleepy and grumpy.
three: don't listen to your housemate when he says you won't need a jumper today.
four: give up on cadbury chocolate. it may be fairtrade but it's sweet and horrible.
five: catch the bus home, climb in bed, watch tv or something. and sleep.
two: don't try to code data when you're sleepy and grumpy.
three: don't listen to your housemate when he says you won't need a jumper today.
four: give up on cadbury chocolate. it may be fairtrade but it's sweet and horrible.
five: catch the bus home, climb in bed, watch tv or something. and sleep.
Friday, October 22, 2010
down time
today is a day to catch my breath. i slept in. i'm on my third load of washing. i'm not yet showered. i had breakfast, and then more breakfast (for lunch). P asked if i'm enjoying the sun. nope. i'm just enjoying doing nothing.
busy doing nothing
i did walk to bourke st bakery for a loaf of bread, so got some sunshine on my brow. and i put my sheets on the washing line, where they now flap. i imagine my poor sleeping patterns have now been rinsed away.
i sent 20000 words to my supervisors and decided to scrap chapter 4 in favour of 5 big chapters. which means, draft-wise, i'm more than half way. approx 55000 words. not that i believe in counting. though just doing the sums now is a little comforting. makes me feel like this day off is deserved.
monday, in the pool, i altered the way i lift my head to inhale. i keep my head pointed forward, more downward, and the water washes over it. it feels different, and i now move faster, approaching the walls with speed. a simple gesture makes a big difference. practice, repetition, adjustment, and discovery. much like writing. and i can't help but conflate swimming with writing, yet again. these movements are in sync. writing this chapter was a struggle, but easier than the last one, easier than 4 months ago. i have more rhythm. my body falls into the words with less hesitation, less fear, and sometimes i forget that these are my efforts that push me through.
busy doing nothing
i did walk to bourke st bakery for a loaf of bread, so got some sunshine on my brow. and i put my sheets on the washing line, where they now flap. i imagine my poor sleeping patterns have now been rinsed away.
i sent 20000 words to my supervisors and decided to scrap chapter 4 in favour of 5 big chapters. which means, draft-wise, i'm more than half way. approx 55000 words. not that i believe in counting. though just doing the sums now is a little comforting. makes me feel like this day off is deserved.
monday, in the pool, i altered the way i lift my head to inhale. i keep my head pointed forward, more downward, and the water washes over it. it feels different, and i now move faster, approaching the walls with speed. a simple gesture makes a big difference. practice, repetition, adjustment, and discovery. much like writing. and i can't help but conflate swimming with writing, yet again. these movements are in sync. writing this chapter was a struggle, but easier than the last one, easier than 4 months ago. i have more rhythm. my body falls into the words with less hesitation, less fear, and sometimes i forget that these are my efforts that push me through.
Monday, October 11, 2010
giovanni's room
i'm quite scattered today. in the interests of de-scattering i'd like to pluck some moments from the last 24 hours...
C tells me he's "pretty fucked up" and i think "aren't we all?" maybe i said it too. he tells me he's been wanting to kiss me all night at the pub. i tell him "me too". he says we shouldn't, but we do, briefly, on the footpath. he tasted like a fresh cigarette.
E tells me to go to bed when it's after 3am. he says i'll ruin my sleep patterns. he's playing the mother this time and i like it.
but i'm chatting to a new avatar. his name is A. he lives with his mum in melbourne and makes abstract art. he likes my nose. i like that he likes my nose because i too like my nose. i often wonder why more people aren't drawn to it. he has nice lips and the eyes of a scared child.
E offers me a cupcake this morning. i put a confetti mermaid in his bucket of cupcakes but he doesn't notice it.
at the cafe J photographs me when we're talking. i try to put my phobia of cameras aside, to look relaxed. i'm sure i failed, yet again. he points his lens at my fingers stroking the rim of an empty coffee glass. they turn brittle, no longer relaxed, as though they're twigs pretending to be fingers.
C calls when i'm on the bus. i'm reading a zine that reminds me of him. or my feelings about him. it's loud so i say i'll call him back.
we're in the pub and everyone around us is very drunk. i must be the most sober. C's friend is drunk yet lovely and has her first date with a girl. we share her nerves before her date arrives. when she arrives she kicks our arses in pool and before long they're making out by the jukebox. who are these people? how did i get in this scenario? but the alcohol, the situation, the pub, brings us together and makes us into a stealthy gang.
i can't help but fantasise about A taking me under his wing. it's pathetic, but it's a glimmer of something else.
i mourn my lack of connection to men. but maybe i obscure it too. for there's E offering me cupcakes and J listening softly, or with his arms around me when we say hello and goodbye. and i know that i can be close to men. but sometimes these moments fall to the background and i carve myself into a hapless victim.
but we all (E, J, A, and myself) share a distaste for the gaymes we play, as men. and i guess we're all looking for something more real than what we currently have. though maybe none of us really know what that means. but it's possible, right?
i tell J about C and how i didn't want 'a relationship' anyway. we agree that many men place much emphasis on sex, seeing it as leading to something more serious. but it may not. and it need not. yet i continually find myself in those moments of people drawing lines in sand.
"let's just be friends"
the most hurtful word here is 'just'. it's about stopping the flow and limiting us to 'just' friendship. but friendship, in its best form, is not second-rate! for me it rises above 'the relationship' always. the idea of 'just' friendship is therefore insulting. it stomps on the life i aim for - a life connected to others through beautiful moments and many and various angles of love. but for some people, love is uni-dimensional, possessive, enveloping, and in need of protection through a dismantling of all the other love that may appear to threaten it. which includes love between friends.
anyway, that's enough moralising for now. time to dry myself off and get some work done. at least until the morning, when i'll walk to uni via C's house.
we'll drink coffee, we'll talk, and it'll be his birthday. i'll pretend i'm okay. although maybe i really am okay. i'm doing alright. and yes, i feel less scattered already.
i forgot to tell J how much i'm loving the book he loaned me.
C tells me he's "pretty fucked up" and i think "aren't we all?" maybe i said it too. he tells me he's been wanting to kiss me all night at the pub. i tell him "me too". he says we shouldn't, but we do, briefly, on the footpath. he tasted like a fresh cigarette.
E tells me to go to bed when it's after 3am. he says i'll ruin my sleep patterns. he's playing the mother this time and i like it.
but i'm chatting to a new avatar. his name is A. he lives with his mum in melbourne and makes abstract art. he likes my nose. i like that he likes my nose because i too like my nose. i often wonder why more people aren't drawn to it. he has nice lips and the eyes of a scared child.
E offers me a cupcake this morning. i put a confetti mermaid in his bucket of cupcakes but he doesn't notice it.
at the cafe J photographs me when we're talking. i try to put my phobia of cameras aside, to look relaxed. i'm sure i failed, yet again. he points his lens at my fingers stroking the rim of an empty coffee glass. they turn brittle, no longer relaxed, as though they're twigs pretending to be fingers.
C calls when i'm on the bus. i'm reading a zine that reminds me of him. or my feelings about him. it's loud so i say i'll call him back.
we're in the pub and everyone around us is very drunk. i must be the most sober. C's friend is drunk yet lovely and has her first date with a girl. we share her nerves before her date arrives. when she arrives she kicks our arses in pool and before long they're making out by the jukebox. who are these people? how did i get in this scenario? but the alcohol, the situation, the pub, brings us together and makes us into a stealthy gang.
i can't help but fantasise about A taking me under his wing. it's pathetic, but it's a glimmer of something else.
i mourn my lack of connection to men. but maybe i obscure it too. for there's E offering me cupcakes and J listening softly, or with his arms around me when we say hello and goodbye. and i know that i can be close to men. but sometimes these moments fall to the background and i carve myself into a hapless victim.
but we all (E, J, A, and myself) share a distaste for the gaymes we play, as men. and i guess we're all looking for something more real than what we currently have. though maybe none of us really know what that means. but it's possible, right?
i tell J about C and how i didn't want 'a relationship' anyway. we agree that many men place much emphasis on sex, seeing it as leading to something more serious. but it may not. and it need not. yet i continually find myself in those moments of people drawing lines in sand.
"let's just be friends"
the most hurtful word here is 'just'. it's about stopping the flow and limiting us to 'just' friendship. but friendship, in its best form, is not second-rate! for me it rises above 'the relationship' always. the idea of 'just' friendship is therefore insulting. it stomps on the life i aim for - a life connected to others through beautiful moments and many and various angles of love. but for some people, love is uni-dimensional, possessive, enveloping, and in need of protection through a dismantling of all the other love that may appear to threaten it. which includes love between friends.
anyway, that's enough moralising for now. time to dry myself off and get some work done. at least until the morning, when i'll walk to uni via C's house.
we'll drink coffee, we'll talk, and it'll be his birthday. i'll pretend i'm okay. although maybe i really am okay. i'm doing alright. and yes, i feel less scattered already.
i forgot to tell J how much i'm loving the book he loaned me.
Friday, October 8, 2010
... is lying in bed at 7pm watching the sky grow dark
i was reading on the bed, my feet grew cold, my head grew tired, so i crawled under covers. a small nap. now i watch aeroplanes and listen to cars and wonder about what i should do tonight. i plan a trip to the supermarket. i realise i'm too tired to socialise. but i can eat. and maybe i can have a bath. and i can read something less taxing than this essay on foucault's theory of 'life as a work of art'.
parts of the text are in french, so i read those out loud to practice, and i try and make sense of them. i figure out some, but there's always unrecognisable words. so i refer to the square-bracketed translation, make mental notes of the new words, whilst also grappling with the ideas.
i wonder if i'll have enough years to learn french, write french, and be the academic that i'd like to be. i wonder if this is my life project, my art, my own suicide pact. Foucault says "Il faut travailler son suicide toute sa vie" [One should work on one's suicide all one's life]. and so i guess i'm busy etching the mark that i wish to leave behind, the souvenir [memory] of my existence; mon oeuvre d'art.
i think i'll make pumpkin and blue cheese pizza.
parts of the text are in french, so i read those out loud to practice, and i try and make sense of them. i figure out some, but there's always unrecognisable words. so i refer to the square-bracketed translation, make mental notes of the new words, whilst also grappling with the ideas.
i wonder if i'll have enough years to learn french, write french, and be the academic that i'd like to be. i wonder if this is my life project, my art, my own suicide pact. Foucault says "Il faut travailler son suicide toute sa vie" [One should work on one's suicide all one's life]. and so i guess i'm busy etching the mark that i wish to leave behind, the souvenir [memory] of my existence; mon oeuvre d'art.
i think i'll make pumpkin and blue cheese pizza.
Monday, September 27, 2010
people tell me stuff
an essay was due so student emails arrive asking for extensions or a few days grace. they tell me of their circumstances. problems at home, sicknesses, a computer virus, and one just discovered that she's quite pregnant. she says she's okay, but scared. a tiny statement that struck deep when i read it. i can't fathom what it would be like to be her. but the fear seems reasonable. i wished her well. all this takes place in the seemingly mundane traffic of email. but yeah, she got to me.
a nice weekend. when i make progress on the current chapter the sun shines brighter and i walk with ease. the world is good.
i met someone with dark eyes and a nervous laugh. we sat on a park bench and talked about who we were. i'd like to take him to bed, but just to lie together, to talk, sleep, and lean into each other. he makes me quite comfortable.
a nice weekend. when i make progress on the current chapter the sun shines brighter and i walk with ease. the world is good.
i met someone with dark eyes and a nervous laugh. we sat on a park bench and talked about who we were. i'd like to take him to bed, but just to lie together, to talk, sleep, and lean into each other. he makes me quite comfortable.
Friday, September 24, 2010
the sound of traffic
i'm taking a course of antibiotics in case 'the thing' is an infection and not my nervous system. 2 days in and it wasn't looking good. last night the pain arrived and stayed. not as severe, but it wouldn't retreat. painkillers and all. it had somehow moved from my jaw to my front upper teeth. this morning i cut my toast into small pieces because i couldn't bite. lunchtime it was a little less tender and i could tear at (but not bite) my sandwich. eating, once again, was hard work. a delicate, eye-watering procession.
but tonight something strange happened. my pain was gone. and i believe it's not coming back because my head is clear. i haven't felt like this in some time. it's like when your eardrum pops and all the sounds return to how they should be. all senses fall into place. there's no dull ache, no pressure, no between-pain numbness. just empty and gone. and it's amazingly good.
i want to remember this feeling. i want to draw upon it when i next think that all is shit. because it isn't. and maybe my head can feel like this forever.
it's hard to write this without sounding naff. i'm quite abuzz. i'm hearing the traffic outside. i'm noticing sensations in other body parts. for the last month or longer i've been little more than my head. it felt huge, explosive, unmanageable. everything (not just eating) happened in and around my head. there's the conversations with others where i had to pretend that i wasn't throbbing; the reading on the bus where i would try to ignore its arrival; the slow metered breathing at night, waiting for it to ease. which it did, but it never died. it never felt like now.
a lot of the work i did was in trying to forget it. thinking and talking about it brought it back. when telling people it would stir as though i was shining a torch on it. i was deeply troubled by the potential of this future and thought about how death might be the end point of my pain. but then tonight happened. i ate ice-cream, i drank tea, and nothing made me shiver or close my eyes. no reason to put my hand to my face (not on my face, but just hovering near it) and breathe slowly (my general response).
now i go to sleep. and tomorrow i think of other things.
but tonight something strange happened. my pain was gone. and i believe it's not coming back because my head is clear. i haven't felt like this in some time. it's like when your eardrum pops and all the sounds return to how they should be. all senses fall into place. there's no dull ache, no pressure, no between-pain numbness. just empty and gone. and it's amazingly good.
i want to remember this feeling. i want to draw upon it when i next think that all is shit. because it isn't. and maybe my head can feel like this forever.
it's hard to write this without sounding naff. i'm quite abuzz. i'm hearing the traffic outside. i'm noticing sensations in other body parts. for the last month or longer i've been little more than my head. it felt huge, explosive, unmanageable. everything (not just eating) happened in and around my head. there's the conversations with others where i had to pretend that i wasn't throbbing; the reading on the bus where i would try to ignore its arrival; the slow metered breathing at night, waiting for it to ease. which it did, but it never died. it never felt like now.
a lot of the work i did was in trying to forget it. thinking and talking about it brought it back. when telling people it would stir as though i was shining a torch on it. i was deeply troubled by the potential of this future and thought about how death might be the end point of my pain. but then tonight happened. i ate ice-cream, i drank tea, and nothing made me shiver or close my eyes. no reason to put my hand to my face (not on my face, but just hovering near it) and breathe slowly (my general response).
now i go to sleep. and tomorrow i think of other things.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
things could be different, but they're not*
today pain comes and goes, but seems mostly absent. though it's hard to tell, as my memory of its intensity is short-term. earlier, i attempt to sip coffee at 1 minute intervals - maybe now is okay. ouch. maybe now is okay. ouch... etc.
it seems to help when i'm busy. and when i don't drink hot liquid. the espresso packed the least punch (in terms of pain) as i guess it wasn't so hot. i'll stick to those tomorrow. the thought of food and drink being painful is somewhat distressing, as these are a few of my favourite things. i don't want to lose certain dietary pleasures. i want chewy bread, chocolate and coffee to stay in my life.
but nothing is certain.
i got writing my first lecture (aids and globalisation). i like the form it's taking. it's only one hour, but at this point i could talk for four. there's no shortage of stuff. but connecting the stuff to the readings, to previous weeks' discussion, and to my own interests, has been fun.
*of Montreal
it seems to help when i'm busy. and when i don't drink hot liquid. the espresso packed the least punch (in terms of pain) as i guess it wasn't so hot. i'll stick to those tomorrow. the thought of food and drink being painful is somewhat distressing, as these are a few of my favourite things. i don't want to lose certain dietary pleasures. i want chewy bread, chocolate and coffee to stay in my life.
but nothing is certain.
i got writing my first lecture (aids and globalisation). i like the form it's taking. it's only one hour, but at this point i could talk for four. there's no shortage of stuff. but connecting the stuff to the readings, to previous weeks' discussion, and to my own interests, has been fun.
*of Montreal
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
trigeminal neuralgia
last night's sleep is restless and pain wakes me throughout the night. my head is in a vice. a throbbing hold on my the left side of my jaw. my left. today i'm a sleep-deprived zombie, still experiencing pain. it comes and goes. right now it's alseep, dormant, but likely to return. it visits unexpectedly, inconveniently, like when i'm teaching.
it's been visiting for some months, but its visits are more frequent and intense now. i visited my dentist and he thinks it might be this.
i'm now in that limbo zone of 'almost diagnosed'. i read myself into the lists of symptoms and pain experiences that the internet offers. a different kind of research today. but not that different - i'm still looking for texts, links, and grappling for some sort of coherence. i learn that it's most common in women over 50. that's not me, so maybe i'm safe. but there are exceptions. until tuesday, i'll keep reading.
elsewhere, i sneeze from hayfever, my eyes itch, and my nose infrequently drips.
elsewhere, in today's swim, three boys invade my lane. i want to say "spread yourselves out, there are other lanes". but you can't talk when your face is underwater. a few laps in and it seems okay. a rhythmic pace. until i collide. my hands hit flesh near the shallow end, sending a shock wave through my body that cripples my lower legs. if i was in a comic book my feet would be closer to my knees, legs like a closed accordion. i can no longer kick. i take a break and slowly stretch to ease the pain.
i ache and limp and drip. today my body is falling apart. but still, at least i have my health.
Friday, September 10, 2010
in defence of theory (a rant)
apologies for what you're about to read. it's a rant inspired from my experience of listening to 5 old white men talk about knowledge and intellectualism today.
it's 5 men. 2 have just published books. all are cynical about post-structuralism and calling for a state of emergency in academia - "what are we teaching these kids? the kids are 'bluffing'! they don't need to be drawing on all that theory, particularly if they don't understand it properly. give them a copy of Wittgenstein and a slap on the wrists!"
don't get me wrong - i like Wittgenstein. i'd encourage people to read him too. but i wanted to challenge so much of what was said. as usual, i didn't. the words i wanted to say could not cohere in my mouth. perhaps i felt threatened as much as these men did.
apparently post-structuralism doesn't apply to scholars 'here'. it's need and usefulness is obvious in france where structuralism was the order of the day, but not for us. we can never understand it in the way the french can. maybe. but should we then abandon what might contain some useful practices and ways of knowing?
apparently if you want to use a theorist you have to know what 'he' is responding to, where he's situated, the context of his writing. maybe. but maybe not. maybe the author is dead!? but i wouldn't have dared to utter that.
apparently there's no room for contradiction in academic pursuit. to that i just wanted to raise my hand and shout "i believe in contradiction". it was a provocation, surely, but nobody else seemed unsettled. the man who said it had already shot down Latour, Woolgar, and all the other sociologists i read.
i wanted to say that social practices - everything we do - is full of contradiction. that that's the process of living. as John Law has pointed out, life is mess and social research is part of this. it is not beyond the social (dis)order. to deny this is to raise the social scientist above the everyday person, as the enlightened voice who can speak for others; as god. hello neo-colonialism. but we're all there, feet on the ground, walking through the mess that we study (even if we don't officially study). and these spaces, these experiences, bristle with contradiction.
these men seemed to think they have a crucial role in protecting the edifice that is the university, or rather, its knowledge foundations. we need to know, explain and understand everything. we need to no longer 'obfuscate' (word of the day) with theory. we need simplicity. there's a Wittgensteinian thread here, which I like, but the use of his theory seems pretty fucked up. as i understand it, Wittgenstein was of the everyday, and looked to 'ordinary language' - or the language of the day - because this gets us closer to the experiences we speak of. this might be seen as simplification, but i doubt it. because his work is complex, and this premise does not deny the shifting roles and use of language - 'the language games' that we're all engaged in. but these 5 men seemed to suggest that we should stop obsessing about language. upon the linguistic turn (as much as i hate that expression) they look away, towards their own certainties about how things really are and why it matters to say so. their foundations are being eroded and they're clearly threatened. old men on comfortable salaries with books published (which are partly motivated by the threat of being made intellectually redundant). which must suck, i'm sure. and it must be hard to be wedged so tightly by your beliefs in pure knowledge that you find yourself being challenged from all levels, including the 'bluffing' essays of students.
which is another point i wanted to interject on. perhaps we read different Wittgenstiens, but isn't bluffing part of our language games? isn't this a tactic (as per Certeau, inspired by Wittgenstein's language games) that we all engage in, whether undergrad students appealing to what the tutor wants, a postgrad student pre-empting the desires of a marker, or the academic going for an ARC grant? we're all bluffing! this is how we practice competence (as per Lyotard - another name I dare not mention). we are all 'poaching' (Certeau) - be it from theory, from data, or the people, things, and ideas around us that can elevate us, or better position us, or just get us laid - whatever it is we want. we are at play. how can we not laugh at the stupid things we do in these games? surely if you believe that this is significant and crucial (and far from game-playing), and a question of value, then maybe you deserve to fall with your sandstone castle.
or maybe it's okay to believe that something is significant and crucial. obviously some things are. like efforts to stop war, famine, suffering. values have a significant function in interrupting such events, as do institutions that can elevate us in making demands for change. but still, pure knowledge is not going to work on its own, only as one of many tactics, within language games, to get what is wanted.
oh man, how did i get here? oh that's right. famine was mentioned too, as a valuable concern, by the guy who dissed Latour and contradiction. and i guess i'm suggesting that because i believe in contradiction i'm not relegating myself to a relativist impasse where anything goes. my belief in contradiction has a political agenda. and that's a politics of practice which extends beyond (though also through) what i read and write (and my use of theory). more so, it relates to how i read and write. and somewhere in there is a need for not only contradiction, but obfuscation too.
in regard to obfuscating language, perhaps the task of coherence can be portioned to readers as well as writers. but that's another rant for later. until then, long live dead authors!
it's 5 men. 2 have just published books. all are cynical about post-structuralism and calling for a state of emergency in academia - "what are we teaching these kids? the kids are 'bluffing'! they don't need to be drawing on all that theory, particularly if they don't understand it properly. give them a copy of Wittgenstein and a slap on the wrists!"
don't get me wrong - i like Wittgenstein. i'd encourage people to read him too. but i wanted to challenge so much of what was said. as usual, i didn't. the words i wanted to say could not cohere in my mouth. perhaps i felt threatened as much as these men did.
apparently post-structuralism doesn't apply to scholars 'here'. it's need and usefulness is obvious in france where structuralism was the order of the day, but not for us. we can never understand it in the way the french can. maybe. but should we then abandon what might contain some useful practices and ways of knowing?
apparently if you want to use a theorist you have to know what 'he' is responding to, where he's situated, the context of his writing. maybe. but maybe not. maybe the author is dead!? but i wouldn't have dared to utter that.
apparently there's no room for contradiction in academic pursuit. to that i just wanted to raise my hand and shout "i believe in contradiction". it was a provocation, surely, but nobody else seemed unsettled. the man who said it had already shot down Latour, Woolgar, and all the other sociologists i read.
i wanted to say that social practices - everything we do - is full of contradiction. that that's the process of living. as John Law has pointed out, life is mess and social research is part of this. it is not beyond the social (dis)order. to deny this is to raise the social scientist above the everyday person, as the enlightened voice who can speak for others; as god. hello neo-colonialism. but we're all there, feet on the ground, walking through the mess that we study (even if we don't officially study). and these spaces, these experiences, bristle with contradiction.
these men seemed to think they have a crucial role in protecting the edifice that is the university, or rather, its knowledge foundations. we need to know, explain and understand everything. we need to no longer 'obfuscate' (word of the day) with theory. we need simplicity. there's a Wittgensteinian thread here, which I like, but the use of his theory seems pretty fucked up. as i understand it, Wittgenstein was of the everyday, and looked to 'ordinary language' - or the language of the day - because this gets us closer to the experiences we speak of. this might be seen as simplification, but i doubt it. because his work is complex, and this premise does not deny the shifting roles and use of language - 'the language games' that we're all engaged in. but these 5 men seemed to suggest that we should stop obsessing about language. upon the linguistic turn (as much as i hate that expression) they look away, towards their own certainties about how things really are and why it matters to say so. their foundations are being eroded and they're clearly threatened. old men on comfortable salaries with books published (which are partly motivated by the threat of being made intellectually redundant). which must suck, i'm sure. and it must be hard to be wedged so tightly by your beliefs in pure knowledge that you find yourself being challenged from all levels, including the 'bluffing' essays of students.
which is another point i wanted to interject on. perhaps we read different Wittgenstiens, but isn't bluffing part of our language games? isn't this a tactic (as per Certeau, inspired by Wittgenstein's language games) that we all engage in, whether undergrad students appealing to what the tutor wants, a postgrad student pre-empting the desires of a marker, or the academic going for an ARC grant? we're all bluffing! this is how we practice competence (as per Lyotard - another name I dare not mention). we are all 'poaching' (Certeau) - be it from theory, from data, or the people, things, and ideas around us that can elevate us, or better position us, or just get us laid - whatever it is we want. we are at play. how can we not laugh at the stupid things we do in these games? surely if you believe that this is significant and crucial (and far from game-playing), and a question of value, then maybe you deserve to fall with your sandstone castle.
or maybe it's okay to believe that something is significant and crucial. obviously some things are. like efforts to stop war, famine, suffering. values have a significant function in interrupting such events, as do institutions that can elevate us in making demands for change. but still, pure knowledge is not going to work on its own, only as one of many tactics, within language games, to get what is wanted.
oh man, how did i get here? oh that's right. famine was mentioned too, as a valuable concern, by the guy who dissed Latour and contradiction. and i guess i'm suggesting that because i believe in contradiction i'm not relegating myself to a relativist impasse where anything goes. my belief in contradiction has a political agenda. and that's a politics of practice which extends beyond (though also through) what i read and write (and my use of theory). more so, it relates to how i read and write. and somewhere in there is a need for not only contradiction, but obfuscation too.
in regard to obfuscating language, perhaps the task of coherence can be portioned to readers as well as writers. but that's another rant for later. until then, long live dead authors!
Friday, August 27, 2010
keeping the pace
this week i give my words to thesis, marking, writing a paper, but not here. there have been many moments of wanting to write here, something for myself. because here is the only space that feels entirely mine. but these moments are undercut by the rising pressure of urgent tasks. and all is urgent (except for this). but of course, nothing is urgent. i just go along with pretending it is because that makes things easier for me down the track; it ensures my 'productivity'. i am but a machine. the most i aim for is to have a little style and rhythm in my mechanical procedure. to which i thank music, the current tempo of the home space, and lefebvre, whose Rhythmanalysis arrived in the mail this week. says henri:
Spontaneously, each of us has our preferences, references, frequencies; each must appreciate rhythms by referring them to oneself, one's heart or breathing, but also to one's hours of work, of rest, of waking and of sleep. (page 10)
Spontaneously, each of us has our preferences, references, frequencies; each must appreciate rhythms by referring them to oneself, one's heart or breathing, but also to one's hours of work, of rest, of waking and of sleep. (page 10)
Friday, August 13, 2010
watching men
feeling a bit tired and overwhelmed by stuff today. i'd planned to be at uni writing my chapter, but i'm still at home. reading things, sending emails, responding to students and text messages, and now i write here. still no chapter. i'll make a list, go for a walk, come back and try again.
i have in mind zine projects, essays, and other adventures unrelated to my chapter. i still want to write on i am love. i've much to say and want to crystallise my experience of it, before i forget. i also want to write an essay/response to emma's nearly healthy zine. an amazing read that has me unsettled (in a good way) and needing to, again, process my response.
i have two birthdays to attend tonight, and still not sure how to manage this. tempted to turn my phone off and hide in bed instead.
in the meantime, an anecdote from yesterday:
in the pool change room there are 3 boys, blokey and loud, filling the room with their voices. i undress and dress quickly. i swim. when showering in a cubicle i hear the booming voices return. opening the cubicle door, towel around waist, soap bottle in hand, there they are: 5 boys in a row, each under their own shower, all wearing long shorts, all looking at me. but what is that look?
usually in this setting, the look is discreet. nakedness creates silence. or queer, furtive glances; often indirect, sometimes through mirrors. i often notice the queers by the way they look, and because i sometimes look in those ways. i can't deny noticing a nicely shaped arse, or body hair that i want to caress. but the queer glances are often shameful, and the tendency is to mostly look down, away, or at the wall. or a mutual queerness might bring eyes together; a mutual eye-caress. perhaps intensified, or cut short, by the danger of the situation. for this is not a gay sauna and there are straight men around, such as the men who travel in packs. so we look down, dress quickly, pretend we don't care.
and the seemingly straight men don't look. but the 5 boys, filling the space with wide bodies and deep voices, look directly at me. intensely, yet not sexually. they are free to look at anyone - queers, women, other men - directly, and without fear, for they constitute some monolithic beast who can eye-fuck without it being sexual. yet, perhaps a sexuality is played out here not between the look and the object, but between the mutual looking; between the 5 men. they fuck each other through me (and everyone else they look through). their bonds solidify, they spread into each other, they flood the room in these gestures of oneness.
walking back to my desk i notice them ahead of me. they walk in a line, nobody ahead of the others. they fill the width of a road. they walk with their knees slightly pointed outward, feet apart, taking up more space. but is it just about space? if i want to channel the likes of hocquenghem (which i do), i might say that this walk is about sealing their bodies, and unconsciously displaying a fear of anal penetration (turn your knees outward, and you'll see what i mean).
their gaze, their voice, their walk - somewhat alien, but so very familiar.
i have in mind zine projects, essays, and other adventures unrelated to my chapter. i still want to write on i am love. i've much to say and want to crystallise my experience of it, before i forget. i also want to write an essay/response to emma's nearly healthy zine. an amazing read that has me unsettled (in a good way) and needing to, again, process my response.
i have two birthdays to attend tonight, and still not sure how to manage this. tempted to turn my phone off and hide in bed instead.
in the meantime, an anecdote from yesterday:
in the pool change room there are 3 boys, blokey and loud, filling the room with their voices. i undress and dress quickly. i swim. when showering in a cubicle i hear the booming voices return. opening the cubicle door, towel around waist, soap bottle in hand, there they are: 5 boys in a row, each under their own shower, all wearing long shorts, all looking at me. but what is that look?
usually in this setting, the look is discreet. nakedness creates silence. or queer, furtive glances; often indirect, sometimes through mirrors. i often notice the queers by the way they look, and because i sometimes look in those ways. i can't deny noticing a nicely shaped arse, or body hair that i want to caress. but the queer glances are often shameful, and the tendency is to mostly look down, away, or at the wall. or a mutual queerness might bring eyes together; a mutual eye-caress. perhaps intensified, or cut short, by the danger of the situation. for this is not a gay sauna and there are straight men around, such as the men who travel in packs. so we look down, dress quickly, pretend we don't care.
and the seemingly straight men don't look. but the 5 boys, filling the space with wide bodies and deep voices, look directly at me. intensely, yet not sexually. they are free to look at anyone - queers, women, other men - directly, and without fear, for they constitute some monolithic beast who can eye-fuck without it being sexual. yet, perhaps a sexuality is played out here not between the look and the object, but between the mutual looking; between the 5 men. they fuck each other through me (and everyone else they look through). their bonds solidify, they spread into each other, they flood the room in these gestures of oneness. walking back to my desk i notice them ahead of me. they walk in a line, nobody ahead of the others. they fill the width of a road. they walk with their knees slightly pointed outward, feet apart, taking up more space. but is it just about space? if i want to channel the likes of hocquenghem (which i do), i might say that this walk is about sealing their bodies, and unconsciously displaying a fear of anal penetration (turn your knees outward, and you'll see what i mean).
their gaze, their voice, their walk - somewhat alien, but so very familiar.
Monday, August 9, 2010
I killed Xavier Dolan...
It happened not too far into the film - I Killed My Mother - when he referenced Truffaut's 400 Blows; possibly my favourite film. But Hubert is no Antoine Doinel. He's the Lady Gaga version - a cheap reference that doesn't do much but signal the fact that Dolan has seen Truffaut. A nod, a signal, a claim to credibility through association and reference. Perhaps it's one of his favourites too. But if so, surely his engagement would be more interesting than this. But it's as though Dolan said "That's a really cool film, and I'd like to reference it in my film, so maybe I'll take 3 or 4 of my favourite aspects and add them to my groundbreaking film about an angsty, queer teenager". Hence, this is Gaga film-making. It is 'littered' with references to other texts on mothers/sons, but does not engage with them in any substantial way. Superficial. Pretending to be smart from using quotes from 'smart books'. We all did that when we were teenagers I suppose. And I know intertextuality can create amazing new fictions - Almodovar's All About My Mother comes to mind - but it is not done here.
My friends liked it. But for me, this was a posing, overly self-conscious, film-school text. It expressed its self-consciousness not only through its littered (disconnected) referencing practices, but its pretentious framing and filming techniques. And really, who cares? Unlike Antoine, Hubert had no resonance. I forget him already. He yelled a lot. He screamed and moaned. He was angsty, but without texture. In short, he's dead. There were no moments where our eyes met and I said "Yes, I know this story". Antoine however, breathes. The collaboration of Truffaut's words, Antoine's character, Leaud's acting, and the characters encircling him, give a series of eruptions where Antoine and I fold into each other. This is not about directly relating to his situation - my situation is no more similar to Antoine's than it is to Hubert's - it's about connection to his struggles before me. I didn't care for Hubert and his situation. Perhaps I was also too aware that Hubert was acted by Dolan, so my hatred manifested in both of them, equally. Surely if I'd connected, I wouldn't have had time to think about the Dolan/Hubert dyad in the first place. But he robbed me of my time and patience. I contemplated walking out.
I know that for a first film made by an 18 year old that this is pretty spectacular. But I can't really care. As a text, for me, it fails. I can't like this, and I don't feel the need to make allowances. Of course, my reaction is fielded by my love of Antoine. It's kind of like a hipster band covering a David Bowie song - it just wouldn't work for me. It lacks respect, engagement, dialogue between (and through) texts. And yeah, I know I'm the old man at the back of the room grumbling about the lack of respect, the arrogance, the precociousness of Dolan and his ilk, but so be it.
My friends liked it. But for me, this was a posing, overly self-conscious, film-school text. It expressed its self-consciousness not only through its littered (disconnected) referencing practices, but its pretentious framing and filming techniques. And really, who cares? Unlike Antoine, Hubert had no resonance. I forget him already. He yelled a lot. He screamed and moaned. He was angsty, but without texture. In short, he's dead. There were no moments where our eyes met and I said "Yes, I know this story". Antoine however, breathes. The collaboration of Truffaut's words, Antoine's character, Leaud's acting, and the characters encircling him, give a series of eruptions where Antoine and I fold into each other. This is not about directly relating to his situation - my situation is no more similar to Antoine's than it is to Hubert's - it's about connection to his struggles before me. I didn't care for Hubert and his situation. Perhaps I was also too aware that Hubert was acted by Dolan, so my hatred manifested in both of them, equally. Surely if I'd connected, I wouldn't have had time to think about the Dolan/Hubert dyad in the first place. But he robbed me of my time and patience. I contemplated walking out.
I know that for a first film made by an 18 year old that this is pretty spectacular. But I can't really care. As a text, for me, it fails. I can't like this, and I don't feel the need to make allowances. Of course, my reaction is fielded by my love of Antoine. It's kind of like a hipster band covering a David Bowie song - it just wouldn't work for me. It lacks respect, engagement, dialogue between (and through) texts. And yeah, I know I'm the old man at the back of the room grumbling about the lack of respect, the arrogance, the precociousness of Dolan and his ilk, but so be it.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
bodily evacuations
I gave this paper at the Open Fields conference in April. I just put in on a blog and thought of a bunch of people I could send the link to. But I won't, because I no longer like it.
I think at the time, for me, it was a certain point of reflection that was necessary. A crystallisation. A realisation of the undercurrents of my personal writing and where this intercepts with my research. A statement that needed to be made in order to move on.
With distance I'm critical of it as a text, which reads like it's trying to say something profound, but does not. There's no crescendo. As a pastiche of musings plucked from a year of writing, and with no linear narrative, it cannot. That wasn't the intention. But when I approach it as a detached reader, I look for this, and I'm disappointed.
As a reader, I prefer this blog with its more recent, less tempered, words.
Some anecdotes:
Friday: i find myself in bed with D. we're both surprised. he touches the bruise: "what's that?" "a love bite". we continue to fuck. it's too quick, there's not enough kissing. he apologises for cumming. i apologise for bleeding. i lend him a book and send him on his way. E comes over; my room smells of sex; i dress for the party.
Tuesday: i'm offered food and wine before the lecture. red wine, veg curry pies, guacamole and corn chips. he speaks about the sensorial turn in cultural studies. i'd not heard this phrase before but it rings true. everyone's talking about touch and hearing and the non-visual experiencing of things. but i wonder... why is this so unsatisfying? why do we find it compelling to address these things in our speech and our writing (always and only through language)? in academic papers and in blogs? what's missing? i guess it's the body. the further we extend the field of inquiry into the body, its organs, its senses, the more we can say about it, as though it were not really us. the more we lose sight of blood, skin, gristle, flesh, shit. maybe i'd like to stop talking about my feelings in ways that might limit them, or guide them, as though i can know them and how to use them. the pursuit of knowledge is a blinding sport of detachment (whether the subject is bodies or not).
wednesday: the second class is wrapping up and i really need to piss. i cross my legs. one leg inches higher up the other, i lean forward, crushing myself and the need to piss. but it doesn't subside. i keep talking. (shut up, leave the room, go piss.) class ends and there's a flood of students asking questions. they're telling me which weeks they'd like to present, asking about the tutorial paper. they're confused. i'm confused. they become more confused. i need to go. speaking faster, pointing more and more at the reader - it's all in the there! flipping pages. clear? is that clear? okay, great, next. finally the last student leaves. she wanted week 10 but everyone jumped in before her. whatever. it's yours. done. bye. i shove everything in my bag, and i leave. doors and steps later, the piss flows. it's a moment of absolute pleasure.
I think at the time, for me, it was a certain point of reflection that was necessary. A crystallisation. A realisation of the undercurrents of my personal writing and where this intercepts with my research. A statement that needed to be made in order to move on.
With distance I'm critical of it as a text, which reads like it's trying to say something profound, but does not. There's no crescendo. As a pastiche of musings plucked from a year of writing, and with no linear narrative, it cannot. That wasn't the intention. But when I approach it as a detached reader, I look for this, and I'm disappointed.
As a reader, I prefer this blog with its more recent, less tempered, words.
Some anecdotes:
Friday: i find myself in bed with D. we're both surprised. he touches the bruise: "what's that?" "a love bite". we continue to fuck. it's too quick, there's not enough kissing. he apologises for cumming. i apologise for bleeding. i lend him a book and send him on his way. E comes over; my room smells of sex; i dress for the party.
Tuesday: i'm offered food and wine before the lecture. red wine, veg curry pies, guacamole and corn chips. he speaks about the sensorial turn in cultural studies. i'd not heard this phrase before but it rings true. everyone's talking about touch and hearing and the non-visual experiencing of things. but i wonder... why is this so unsatisfying? why do we find it compelling to address these things in our speech and our writing (always and only through language)? in academic papers and in blogs? what's missing? i guess it's the body. the further we extend the field of inquiry into the body, its organs, its senses, the more we can say about it, as though it were not really us. the more we lose sight of blood, skin, gristle, flesh, shit. maybe i'd like to stop talking about my feelings in ways that might limit them, or guide them, as though i can know them and how to use them. the pursuit of knowledge is a blinding sport of detachment (whether the subject is bodies or not).
wednesday: the second class is wrapping up and i really need to piss. i cross my legs. one leg inches higher up the other, i lean forward, crushing myself and the need to piss. but it doesn't subside. i keep talking. (shut up, leave the room, go piss.) class ends and there's a flood of students asking questions. they're telling me which weeks they'd like to present, asking about the tutorial paper. they're confused. i'm confused. they become more confused. i need to go. speaking faster, pointing more and more at the reader - it's all in the there! flipping pages. clear? is that clear? okay, great, next. finally the last student leaves. she wanted week 10 but everyone jumped in before her. whatever. it's yours. done. bye. i shove everything in my bag, and i leave. doors and steps later, the piss flows. it's a moment of absolute pleasure.
Monday, August 2, 2010
shape shifting
whingeing is boring. nobody needs to read that last post. nor do they need to know that i've just waited 30 minutes in a freezing cold bus shelter for the last bus. or how late it was. nor do they want to watch me unfurl my insecurities around ever being able to finish this phd.
it's raining. i'm simmering in a vat of self-doubt, wondering if i'm such a fuck-up that a simple impolite email can bring me undone. and i need to get out. to imagine myself elsewhere. a woman in china in 85 CE, in fact.
i'm one of few women who can read. my mother has put Ban Zhao's Nujie (Lessons for Women) on my bed. It's cold and raining, so i bury myself in blankets and i read...
Let a woman modestly yield to others; let her respect others; let her put others first, herself last. Should she do something good, let her not mention it; should she do something bad let her not deny it. Let her bear disgrace; let her even endure when others speak or do evil to her. Always let her seem to tremble and to fear. When a woman follows such maxims as these then she may be said to humble herself before others.
and so i come to learn the art of humility, silence, servitude, endurance.
the bus driver smiled at me and the other angry passengers. i wanted to smile back at her but couldn't. two seats forward a young straight couple are kissing; repeatedly pecking away at each other. i want to smash them. but i don't. because i'm practicing restraint, humility, submission. i find myself in a quiet place. i meditate on my own faults. silence is my power. not speaking. not judging. not wishing them dead. i look down. i write this essay with a steady hand and a slow, perfect, heartbeat. anger is of no use. consistent politeness and servitude is. silence will take me there. words unspoken need not suffocate me. but restlessness will.
Let her live in purity and quietness of spirit, and attend to her own affairs.
To counteract firmness nothing equals compliance.
it's raining. i'm simmering in a vat of self-doubt, wondering if i'm such a fuck-up that a simple impolite email can bring me undone. and i need to get out. to imagine myself elsewhere. a woman in china in 85 CE, in fact.
i'm one of few women who can read. my mother has put Ban Zhao's Nujie (Lessons for Women) on my bed. It's cold and raining, so i bury myself in blankets and i read...
Let a woman modestly yield to others; let her respect others; let her put others first, herself last. Should she do something good, let her not mention it; should she do something bad let her not deny it. Let her bear disgrace; let her even endure when others speak or do evil to her. Always let her seem to tremble and to fear. When a woman follows such maxims as these then she may be said to humble herself before others.
and so i come to learn the art of humility, silence, servitude, endurance.
the bus driver smiled at me and the other angry passengers. i wanted to smile back at her but couldn't. two seats forward a young straight couple are kissing; repeatedly pecking away at each other. i want to smash them. but i don't. because i'm practicing restraint, humility, submission. i find myself in a quiet place. i meditate on my own faults. silence is my power. not speaking. not judging. not wishing them dead. i look down. i write this essay with a steady hand and a slow, perfect, heartbeat. anger is of no use. consistent politeness and servitude is. silence will take me there. words unspoken need not suffocate me. but restlessness will.
Let her live in purity and quietness of spirit, and attend to her own affairs.
To counteract firmness nothing equals compliance.
fuck you fuck you fuck you
so i sent an email saying that as i have a postgrad review in august i expect not to need one in november. i say that i'm about to book a trip abroad for all of november.
so she sends an email that says:
Regardless of whether we have a follow-up review in August... you also need to have your annual review in November and this is not negotiable, so you need to book your trip either before or after the review.
I am sorry if this seem inflexible but you have not idea how difficult it is to get all the appropriate people in the room at the same time.
Kind regards
[name]
it's been a long day, and this makes me want to punch a wall. "sorry if this seems inflexible"? fuck you. it doesn't seem it, it is inflexible. it's ridiculous. the days you ask me to be available are November 16-18 - middle of the fucking month. November is my only holiday option. a holiday is my only impetus to keep working like your fucking slave. so fuck you entirely. argh!
i think i'll respond more cordially after a good night's sleep.
or maybe i'll just book my flight tonight. oops. sorry. au revoir!
so she sends an email that says:
Regardless of whether we have a follow-up review in August... you also need to have your annual review in November and this is not negotiable, so you need to book your trip either before or after the review.
I am sorry if this seem inflexible but you have not idea how difficult it is to get all the appropriate people in the room at the same time.
Kind regards
[name]
it's been a long day, and this makes me want to punch a wall. "sorry if this seems inflexible"? fuck you. it doesn't seem it, it is inflexible. it's ridiculous. the days you ask me to be available are November 16-18 - middle of the fucking month. November is my only holiday option. a holiday is my only impetus to keep working like your fucking slave. so fuck you entirely. argh!
i think i'll respond more cordially after a good night's sleep.
or maybe i'll just book my flight tonight. oops. sorry. au revoir!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
desiring un-desire
and then i go on this date. breakfast in newtown. with the man i wish had a different name to my ex. but what can you do? and i felt something, but i'm not sure what. and i'm not sure why it worries me. and i guess it relates to that last post, to hocquenghem, to the fear of being dragged under. maybe i'm like D and am just one of those people who fall quickly and often. he's sharp, lovely, pretty, sincere. what's not to fall for?
and just now, after teaching, being tired and somewhat fragile, i message him. his response is slow, but arrives. where there might be anticipation for the response, there is fear. i read rejection before it happens. i preempt. i cut myself off to prevent later damage. but it's damage nonetheless. only it's a damage that i control. it's fucking ridiculous and i'd like to just shut my eyes and fall forward.
i'm trying to shake the feeling that i should stop putting myself in these situations. that i should train myself away from desire. but that's difficult when i only find solace in the desiring text. i turn to barthes, woolf, hocquenghem, nin, genet, and others. they push me back into the flames. but i seem to like it like that.
and just now, after teaching, being tired and somewhat fragile, i message him. his response is slow, but arrives. where there might be anticipation for the response, there is fear. i read rejection before it happens. i preempt. i cut myself off to prevent later damage. but it's damage nonetheless. only it's a damage that i control. it's fucking ridiculous and i'd like to just shut my eyes and fall forward.
i'm trying to shake the feeling that i should stop putting myself in these situations. that i should train myself away from desire. but that's difficult when i only find solace in the desiring text. i turn to barthes, woolf, hocquenghem, nin, genet, and others. they push me back into the flames. but i seem to like it like that.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
desiring desire
if my desire had a name, perhaps it would be guy hocquenghem. or rather, if my desire to desire and to be desired had a name...
in melbourne i stumbled upon the screwball asses. amazing. i'm in awe. it's the most lovely, crazy, throbbing rant i've read in a long time. i'm now charged by thoughts of queer revolutions.
the following passage was written for me to read now. and to keep reading, for now.
"I would like to be a gigolo offering myself to all. But when I meet a gigolo who dazzles me, who seduces with even more insolence than myself and with more of that desire to be desired, am I not just as scared of a trap as everyone else, just as scared as he is? Scared of the trap of being less desired than I myself desire, the trap that is called being in love.
"This is where we should scramble the flows, de-desire, en-desire, switch the current, disrupt the machine. But instead, we turn off the power because we are scared of suffering or of being swindled. No discipline is more sentimental than the one that represses sentiments. (p38)
and there's so much more. throughout he addresses the tendency for queer male politics to sever desire from thought. political brothers do not fuck, they only speak of fucking. because desire belongs outside of politics. but not according to hocquenghem, who addresses this paper "to those individuals with whom I cannot make love".
we speak so much of desire, always and often. we analyse it and seek to know it, as though to extract it. but why can't we speak of non-desire? why, he asks, can't we be critical of our non-desire? who in the room do we not wish to fuck and why might that be? and there's so much more. he asks:
"When shall we be able to shatter the power of words by the movement of skins?"(p84)
this statement relates to my ongoing musings (here and elsewhere) about desire. it lies beneath my own attempts to express something (here and elsewhere) beyond words. because words can't do what bodies can. words don't make me come here.
today I startled myself in the change rooms, when i caught sight of (in my reflection) a bruise above my left nipple. 'what the fuck?' then i remembered him, biting me, several days ago. a nice memory of a playful moment. a bed, a suck, a sensation. and now we're left with stains on the surface of our skin.
we exchanged words too, but these are forgotten.
in melbourne i stumbled upon the screwball asses. amazing. i'm in awe. it's the most lovely, crazy, throbbing rant i've read in a long time. i'm now charged by thoughts of queer revolutions.
the following passage was written for me to read now. and to keep reading, for now.
"I would like to be a gigolo offering myself to all. But when I meet a gigolo who dazzles me, who seduces with even more insolence than myself and with more of that desire to be desired, am I not just as scared of a trap as everyone else, just as scared as he is? Scared of the trap of being less desired than I myself desire, the trap that is called being in love.
"This is where we should scramble the flows, de-desire, en-desire, switch the current, disrupt the machine. But instead, we turn off the power because we are scared of suffering or of being swindled. No discipline is more sentimental than the one that represses sentiments. (p38)
and there's so much more. throughout he addresses the tendency for queer male politics to sever desire from thought. political brothers do not fuck, they only speak of fucking. because desire belongs outside of politics. but not according to hocquenghem, who addresses this paper "to those individuals with whom I cannot make love".
we speak so much of desire, always and often. we analyse it and seek to know it, as though to extract it. but why can't we speak of non-desire? why, he asks, can't we be critical of our non-desire? who in the room do we not wish to fuck and why might that be? and there's so much more. he asks:
"When shall we be able to shatter the power of words by the movement of skins?"(p84)
this statement relates to my ongoing musings (here and elsewhere) about desire. it lies beneath my own attempts to express something (here and elsewhere) beyond words. because words can't do what bodies can. words don't make me come here.
today I startled myself in the change rooms, when i caught sight of (in my reflection) a bruise above my left nipple. 'what the fuck?' then i remembered him, biting me, several days ago. a nice memory of a playful moment. a bed, a suck, a sensation. and now we're left with stains on the surface of our skin.
we exchanged words too, but these are forgotten.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
dental work melodrama
she handed me a piece of paper and pointed to the figure at the bottom. $690. this doesn't include today's $190. teeth are really fucking expensive. no longer having pain is expensive. root canals are boring. and i'll probably fork out more for a crown, down the track, when my gutted tooth turns grey. i hear voices saying now's a good time to get 'dental cover'. but no. insurance is evil.
so now i'm just filling in time until i can eat. i'm swollen, yet hungry. i've not eaten today. it was a late night, a difficult sleep, an early morning, an indecisive wardrobe, a prolonged bus ride to uni, a lecture to attend with course readers to hand out, a coffee to group ourselves, a timesheet to fax, a dentist to visit. and then i'm here.
flirting with the idea of taking a sick day. flashbacks to being a kid, taking an afternoon out of school to visit the dentist. hating it, but feeling some compensation by being out-of-school, and the sometimes glimpse of daytime TV. then there was the drama of having a numb face - "can i have ice-cream?" - which doesn't really work in adult interactions. so i just perform this alone, through these words, and fantasies about being in bed with a DVD. because i'm so terribly uncomfortable. and so very brave.
fuck it. i'm going home.
so now i'm just filling in time until i can eat. i'm swollen, yet hungry. i've not eaten today. it was a late night, a difficult sleep, an early morning, an indecisive wardrobe, a prolonged bus ride to uni, a lecture to attend with course readers to hand out, a coffee to group ourselves, a timesheet to fax, a dentist to visit. and then i'm here.
flirting with the idea of taking a sick day. flashbacks to being a kid, taking an afternoon out of school to visit the dentist. hating it, but feeling some compensation by being out-of-school, and the sometimes glimpse of daytime TV. then there was the drama of having a numb face - "can i have ice-cream?" - which doesn't really work in adult interactions. so i just perform this alone, through these words, and fantasies about being in bed with a DVD. because i'm so terribly uncomfortable. and so very brave.
fuck it. i'm going home.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
i-Produce
anais nin writes: "we gave ourselves to the press".
she refers here to the printing press that she, henry and gonzalo used (and struggled with) to produce books. sometimes a day's work produced one page. it was tiresome. but it was an escape, a ritual, an achievement. it was productive.
pablo writes: "i give myself to this thesis".
he knows that this is a potentially harmful and somewhat stupid way to approach things in life, but feels it necessary to repeat this mantra, for now. he was just reading about the self-governance of neo-liberal subjects (such as he, and you) who are forever occupied with the struggle to control their life, health, sanity, practices, memories, experiences... (ie. self). he's aware that self-governance is cyclic, that it just leads to further seeking of order, control, clarity. because self-control (perhaps any control) is evasive. it cannot be had. but we still push for it, and in doing so, we produce things. we produce selves. and our selves make up the machine that works towards a more productive human existence. some of us blame the system for pushing us too hard and grinding us down. but we are the system. perhaps we're too busy (producing) to notice such things.
i want to finish my phd, i want to write excellent things, and i want to create a self (through my work) that completes me.
pablo gives himself to his thesis.
she refers here to the printing press that she, henry and gonzalo used (and struggled with) to produce books. sometimes a day's work produced one page. it was tiresome. but it was an escape, a ritual, an achievement. it was productive.
pablo writes: "i give myself to this thesis".
he knows that this is a potentially harmful and somewhat stupid way to approach things in life, but feels it necessary to repeat this mantra, for now. he was just reading about the self-governance of neo-liberal subjects (such as he, and you) who are forever occupied with the struggle to control their life, health, sanity, practices, memories, experiences... (ie. self). he's aware that self-governance is cyclic, that it just leads to further seeking of order, control, clarity. because self-control (perhaps any control) is evasive. it cannot be had. but we still push for it, and in doing so, we produce things. we produce selves. and our selves make up the machine that works towards a more productive human existence. some of us blame the system for pushing us too hard and grinding us down. but we are the system. perhaps we're too busy (producing) to notice such things.
i want to finish my phd, i want to write excellent things, and i want to create a self (through my work) that completes me.
pablo gives himself to his thesis.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
new friend
My new young friend is just a friend. Two visits from him today, and tonight I was his mother. I made him lemon and ginger tea, felt his glands, made him comfortable. I gave him my company. We make good company, despite the stretch of years between us.
My new young friend is beautiful, but he is just a friend. Tonight I mentioned my confusion. "I would have jumped you by now" he said, if anything sexual was going to happen. I try not to take this as rejection, because it's not. To do so would be to put a higher value on my sex than my friendship, which is stupid. But is easy to do when one feels uncertain about the former.
If we had sex then things would turn bad, he said. And I knew this. I know this. I've said this to other people. But that didn't seem to remove its potential and my fantasising about it. Now I wish I was more adamant, more certain, more able to read and manage the situation.
But the signals were confusing. As Rod pointed out, his friends don't read Jane Eyre to him while he lies on their bed. How could that not feel romantic? So maybe I can't be too hard on myself.
My new young friend said he'll call tomorrow afternoon. We hug goodbye, once again, at the top of the stairs.
And I'm left humming this song:
My new young friend is beautiful, but he is just a friend. Tonight I mentioned my confusion. "I would have jumped you by now" he said, if anything sexual was going to happen. I try not to take this as rejection, because it's not. To do so would be to put a higher value on my sex than my friendship, which is stupid. But is easy to do when one feels uncertain about the former.
If we had sex then things would turn bad, he said. And I knew this. I know this. I've said this to other people. But that didn't seem to remove its potential and my fantasising about it. Now I wish I was more adamant, more certain, more able to read and manage the situation.
But the signals were confusing. As Rod pointed out, his friends don't read Jane Eyre to him while he lies on their bed. How could that not feel romantic? So maybe I can't be too hard on myself.
My new young friend said he'll call tomorrow afternoon. We hug goodbye, once again, at the top of the stairs.
And I'm left humming this song:
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
reflections
We meet at the bus stop and he says he's cold. He doesn't want the jacket that I'm not using; that's in my hand. The bus soon comes. He speaks a bit too loudly, but I'm not too fussed. He's intense, but again I'm not fussed. I'm used to it now.
I make us coffee and we sit on the couch. He reads aloud from the Sun-Herald. Trash. He asks if he can tear a page out. "Take the whole thing if you want". He wants to borrow Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulation. He starts reading this aloud too, and we try to make sense of it. He wants us to read it together again soon. He touches me, shows me how cold he is. I forgot. I forget that other people feel the cold more than I. I remember the heater in his room and how thick the air was. But he stayed for a couple of hours, so he must like me. I like him, but not his age. Way too young. I start thinking aloud about when I'm next free but he cuts me off, reminds me that we're neighbours and we'll just be in touch. There's no need for planning. I like this.
He's too young so I just want us to be friends. But he fascinates me too much. And the flick of eyelashes leaves me a-gush. As does his voice, his politeness, his face. And I adore his angst. Mine was never so beautiful, so direct, so contemplated.
I read in the bath, but the words are slipping away and I can't care for that book tonight. I put it down and reach for Anais Nin. She takes me where I need to be. There's passion and emotional struggle and wanting to make things with words and kindness. I wonder how much I've carved her into my own being, over the years, through reading these diaries. I sometimes catch myself, as her, surrounded by sad men, listening and caring. Wanting them, and sometimes having them. But often finding disappointment because they can't give in the way we (believe that we) give. Maybe we feel tortured by them, but we're really torturing ourselves. Yet the struggle seems necessary to feel alive, and to exist in an otherwise flat ocean between our wanting and its objects. Our struggles create waves, yet we think they come from elsewhere; beyond our doing.
I read:
In the case of withdrawal from a friendship it is difficult to tell whether it is the withdrawal of feeling which kills the warmth, or whether the warmth was a reflection. As soon as I withdrew, Robert revealed his coldness, or was it always there? To what extent do people have an independent life or reflect each other's warmth? To what extent do we call into being what we believe, see, wish in others?
(Nin, January 1942)
I make us coffee and we sit on the couch. He reads aloud from the Sun-Herald. Trash. He asks if he can tear a page out. "Take the whole thing if you want". He wants to borrow Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulation. He starts reading this aloud too, and we try to make sense of it. He wants us to read it together again soon. He touches me, shows me how cold he is. I forgot. I forget that other people feel the cold more than I. I remember the heater in his room and how thick the air was. But he stayed for a couple of hours, so he must like me. I like him, but not his age. Way too young. I start thinking aloud about when I'm next free but he cuts me off, reminds me that we're neighbours and we'll just be in touch. There's no need for planning. I like this.
He's too young so I just want us to be friends. But he fascinates me too much. And the flick of eyelashes leaves me a-gush. As does his voice, his politeness, his face. And I adore his angst. Mine was never so beautiful, so direct, so contemplated.
I read in the bath, but the words are slipping away and I can't care for that book tonight. I put it down and reach for Anais Nin. She takes me where I need to be. There's passion and emotional struggle and wanting to make things with words and kindness. I wonder how much I've carved her into my own being, over the years, through reading these diaries. I sometimes catch myself, as her, surrounded by sad men, listening and caring. Wanting them, and sometimes having them. But often finding disappointment because they can't give in the way we (believe that we) give. Maybe we feel tortured by them, but we're really torturing ourselves. Yet the struggle seems necessary to feel alive, and to exist in an otherwise flat ocean between our wanting and its objects. Our struggles create waves, yet we think they come from elsewhere; beyond our doing.
I read:
In the case of withdrawal from a friendship it is difficult to tell whether it is the withdrawal of feeling which kills the warmth, or whether the warmth was a reflection. As soon as I withdrew, Robert revealed his coldness, or was it always there? To what extent do people have an independent life or reflect each other's warmth? To what extent do we call into being what we believe, see, wish in others?
(Nin, January 1942)
Saturday, July 3, 2010
knowing about knowing and when to sleep in
i lie in bed with no intention of getting up. this is my day of nothing. a day i've been craving.
last night, around 8pm, i sent my chapter to supervisors. it's the first complete chapter draft. all paragraphs (no notes) and all structured. i'm a bit satisfied, though was wondering if it would send me over the edge. weeks of whole days working on a single argument is not good for my sanity. at times i felt that everything i ever knew fell away, had to be pushed out of me, so that my attention could be specific, and this beast could be conquered. i spent all those hours with all those words. even when i moved away it was there, like a virus. the shower was a site of realisations of things missing and connections to make, and i would have to make mental notes, constructing numbered lists to write down once i could. all-consuming and not very fun. music was my only vice, though this changed too, and i started hearing lyrics of metaphors of madness. i discovered Of Montreal. brilliant stuff. but then (having learnt to doubt my every thought), i wondered, 'were they?' so i listened to them repeatedly to make sure. perhaps mirroring other repetitious habits. the song below will always be linked to 'the production of knowledges around young people's sexual health'.
i need to not think about it for a week, yet here i am, thinking about it. i need to ease myself off this.
though it's good now and as said, i'm a bit satisfied. i ended up (as usual) writing something different to what i set out to say. i found myself saying that the production of knowledge is an always collaborative affair, therefore, health work that seeks to improve young people's knowledge levels of sexual health is questionable. because how much do they need to know? their health is not entirely theirs, and nor is knowledge. as per Lyotard, knowledge is more about competence, less about learning and reciting facts. knowledge is not exterior to practice, and intensifies around events such as STI diagnoses, which require multiple agents and relations of trust. as a collaboration, sexual health involves the individual, yet far exceeds her and her knowledge. but knowledge is never static, as much health work seems to suggest. its movement can be seen in the shifting statements that science and health have made over the years. 'what sex does' is always shifting ground. all knowledge, like any good infection, constantly mutates.
anyway, the soundtrack:
last night, around 8pm, i sent my chapter to supervisors. it's the first complete chapter draft. all paragraphs (no notes) and all structured. i'm a bit satisfied, though was wondering if it would send me over the edge. weeks of whole days working on a single argument is not good for my sanity. at times i felt that everything i ever knew fell away, had to be pushed out of me, so that my attention could be specific, and this beast could be conquered. i spent all those hours with all those words. even when i moved away it was there, like a virus. the shower was a site of realisations of things missing and connections to make, and i would have to make mental notes, constructing numbered lists to write down once i could. all-consuming and not very fun. music was my only vice, though this changed too, and i started hearing lyrics of metaphors of madness. i discovered Of Montreal. brilliant stuff. but then (having learnt to doubt my every thought), i wondered, 'were they?' so i listened to them repeatedly to make sure. perhaps mirroring other repetitious habits. the song below will always be linked to 'the production of knowledges around young people's sexual health'.
i need to not think about it for a week, yet here i am, thinking about it. i need to ease myself off this.
though it's good now and as said, i'm a bit satisfied. i ended up (as usual) writing something different to what i set out to say. i found myself saying that the production of knowledge is an always collaborative affair, therefore, health work that seeks to improve young people's knowledge levels of sexual health is questionable. because how much do they need to know? their health is not entirely theirs, and nor is knowledge. as per Lyotard, knowledge is more about competence, less about learning and reciting facts. knowledge is not exterior to practice, and intensifies around events such as STI diagnoses, which require multiple agents and relations of trust. as a collaboration, sexual health involves the individual, yet far exceeds her and her knowledge. but knowledge is never static, as much health work seems to suggest. its movement can be seen in the shifting statements that science and health have made over the years. 'what sex does' is always shifting ground. all knowledge, like any good infection, constantly mutates.
anyway, the soundtrack:
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
always reading, never writing
last night you took me to the closing night of the film festival. it was nice to be part of its ending, since it consumed so many of my days. our days. and so often we sat together and grimaced at the noisy people behind us. at the halfway mark i stopped leaning into you, and stopped rubbing your leg, because you called it as friendship. i was glad you did this, because i didn't know how to read it. you said it was sad and i agreed.
last night i drank too much red wine and i wanted you. but i hid these feelings. because maybe it was just the red wine. then you gave 3 kisses at the bus stop. my mouth, my neck, and you blew one as i moved away. or did i imagine that? and it was an uncertain ride home. sadness, again, and i was unable to reconcile what this meant, how i felt, where we were at just now.
this morning, on another bus, i thought of you. i thought of that morning when i walked out of your bathroom and you were slowly and coyly dancing to johnny cash in your underwear. at that point, this morning, i really did want you.
hounds of love, kate bush. this song is you, right? though maybe it's me too. and maybe it can be applied to everyone who's ever feared their own desires (ie. everyone). but maybe i'm still in a red wine haze and reading too much into things.
last night i drank too much red wine and i wanted you. but i hid these feelings. because maybe it was just the red wine. then you gave 3 kisses at the bus stop. my mouth, my neck, and you blew one as i moved away. or did i imagine that? and it was an uncertain ride home. sadness, again, and i was unable to reconcile what this meant, how i felt, where we were at just now.
this morning, on another bus, i thought of you. i thought of that morning when i walked out of your bathroom and you were slowly and coyly dancing to johnny cash in your underwear. at that point, this morning, i really did want you.
hounds of love, kate bush. this song is you, right? though maybe it's me too. and maybe it can be applied to everyone who's ever feared their own desires (ie. everyone). but maybe i'm still in a red wine haze and reading too much into things.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
digital divide
digits are fingers. they are also numbers. i guess it's the same word because we count with our fingers. but we do many things with fingers. we touch things and make things and grab onto things to make a hasty escape from numbers. or maybe that's just me.
i want digital to mean 'of the fingers' but mostly i use it to speak 'of the computer' or other equipment that operates via batteries and electricity. i'm not a fan of that digital. i like fingers. give me a knitting needle over a mouse any day.
of course fingers use digital technology too. but as i type, i forget my fingers. i'm not looking at them, what they touch, or how they move.
today i've been trying to get a sound file off a digital recorder. to no avail. i've looked at instructions (despite my instructional illiteracy) and i've watched youtube instructional videos. it seems you just plug it in and it works. but it doesn't. silence. nothing. and nowhere to go from there.
i once had a washing machine that used to break down. i could fix it. i once drove a 1978 torana whose gear shaft would get stuck in reverse. i could fix it. a screwdriver, a spanner, some banging of metal, and off i drove. i didn't feel particularly skilled. these were simple tools, simple rules, a matter of putting things back in their place. things that could be seen, felt, and hit. it was dirty work that blackened my fingers but there was a satisfaction in fixing. these were not skills i wanted to learn, but had to learn. if i had money i would probably not have taken them up. but i didn't. and so i did. and i grew accustomed to the joys of fixing things in my life. personal items that kept my life functioning as it did.
but now, today, things break and i have to phone somebody. i phone the landlord who phones the plumber who phones me and then i phone my housemate and this goes on for a while until the problem is fixed. phew. but the problem is beyond my reach. there's no spanner in my hand.
and so with my broken hard drive. there's a man who plugs it in, and listens, and says the head is broken. it's a delicate salvage operation in a dust-free room that will cost $500-600. i can't be there, of course. there's no spanner. once again, i'm dislocated from the things i break. i'm made stupid by the modern art of fixing.
i like to fix things. writing is about fixing. editing, changing, adapting, making something from words. and sometimes it feels like a car stalled in peak hour traffic. but i hammer away until i can get moving once more. i own it. there's a sense of control and achievement. a great sense of achievement when things work. and this is more satisfying than a wage (i would never work as a fixer of things). it's completely non-monetary. $500-600 can't buy me the words i need. generating some necessary skills can though.
this might go some way into explaining why i really wanted to throw this digital recorder against the wall just now.
i want digital to mean 'of the fingers' but mostly i use it to speak 'of the computer' or other equipment that operates via batteries and electricity. i'm not a fan of that digital. i like fingers. give me a knitting needle over a mouse any day.
of course fingers use digital technology too. but as i type, i forget my fingers. i'm not looking at them, what they touch, or how they move.
today i've been trying to get a sound file off a digital recorder. to no avail. i've looked at instructions (despite my instructional illiteracy) and i've watched youtube instructional videos. it seems you just plug it in and it works. but it doesn't. silence. nothing. and nowhere to go from there.
i once had a washing machine that used to break down. i could fix it. i once drove a 1978 torana whose gear shaft would get stuck in reverse. i could fix it. a screwdriver, a spanner, some banging of metal, and off i drove. i didn't feel particularly skilled. these were simple tools, simple rules, a matter of putting things back in their place. things that could be seen, felt, and hit. it was dirty work that blackened my fingers but there was a satisfaction in fixing. these were not skills i wanted to learn, but had to learn. if i had money i would probably not have taken them up. but i didn't. and so i did. and i grew accustomed to the joys of fixing things in my life. personal items that kept my life functioning as it did.
but now, today, things break and i have to phone somebody. i phone the landlord who phones the plumber who phones me and then i phone my housemate and this goes on for a while until the problem is fixed. phew. but the problem is beyond my reach. there's no spanner in my hand.
and so with my broken hard drive. there's a man who plugs it in, and listens, and says the head is broken. it's a delicate salvage operation in a dust-free room that will cost $500-600. i can't be there, of course. there's no spanner. once again, i'm dislocated from the things i break. i'm made stupid by the modern art of fixing.
i like to fix things. writing is about fixing. editing, changing, adapting, making something from words. and sometimes it feels like a car stalled in peak hour traffic. but i hammer away until i can get moving once more. i own it. there's a sense of control and achievement. a great sense of achievement when things work. and this is more satisfying than a wage (i would never work as a fixer of things). it's completely non-monetary. $500-600 can't buy me the words i need. generating some necessary skills can though.
this might go some way into explaining why i really wanted to throw this digital recorder against the wall just now.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
the quiet room
my day was going well, and then, sitting on the bed, i dragged my computer over my lap, forgetting the hard drive was plugged in, and watched it, or rather heard it, fall to the floor. and now it's not working. my day is no longer working.
it shouldn't matter, i know. all my files on there were back-ups. except for the 12000 or so music files. i still have them on ipod, and a few (but not many) on cd. but that's different. the thought of not having that on hand is quite distressing. it shouldn't be. there's records and cds and other ways to hear music. but this is most definitely an amputation.
it shouldn't matter, but it does. it really does. and now i'm going to go to glebe (in the rain) in the hope that someone can salvage it. i'm hesitant though, because maybe the news will be bad.
it shouldn't matter, i know. all my files on there were back-ups. except for the 12000 or so music files. i still have them on ipod, and a few (but not many) on cd. but that's different. the thought of not having that on hand is quite distressing. it shouldn't be. there's records and cds and other ways to hear music. but this is most definitely an amputation.
it shouldn't matter, but it does. it really does. and now i'm going to go to glebe (in the rain) in the hope that someone can salvage it. i'm hesitant though, because maybe the news will be bad.
Monday, May 24, 2010
once in a lifetime
"and you may ask yourself, how did i get here?"
(talking heads)
i'm going to kill my facebook account. i don't need it. it doesn't need me. let's move on.
i had some more dreams, and then they stopped.
thursday night it was a taxi on fire. well, not so much on fire as having a flickering flame on the windscreen and bonnet, as though a flammable liquid over the windshield was on fire. the paint wasn't blistering, the car wasn't burning up. i think it was parked near newtown station. a person over my shoulder says "that'd be right" as though this sort of thing was to be expected.
friday night i dreamt that chris and i were walking and stumbled into a violent street scene. a guy had a knife and threatened the people around him. one man tried to get the knife from him and got slashed across his stomach. he fell down and it looked like he was about to be stabbed to death. then maybe another man intercepted. and then, at some stage, all the fighters stood and bowed to now applauding onlookers. this was a performance and nobody was injured. i was really angry that i was made to feel frightened for the sake of street performance.
chris was in my bed, so perhaps that's why he featured in the dream. i told him of this the next morning. i haven't remembered a dream since.
most of my dreams have circulated around fear and uncertainty. i wonder if the anticipation of seeing haneke's the white ribbon was intercepting with my sleeping thoughts. i saw it last night. that deserves its own post and further contemplation on my part, but it seemed to connect to the trajectory of my dreams. though maybe it has made me more fearful and anxious in my waking life, because there's no writing this off as fiction.
(talking heads)
i'm going to kill my facebook account. i don't need it. it doesn't need me. let's move on.
i had some more dreams, and then they stopped.
thursday night it was a taxi on fire. well, not so much on fire as having a flickering flame on the windscreen and bonnet, as though a flammable liquid over the windshield was on fire. the paint wasn't blistering, the car wasn't burning up. i think it was parked near newtown station. a person over my shoulder says "that'd be right" as though this sort of thing was to be expected.
friday night i dreamt that chris and i were walking and stumbled into a violent street scene. a guy had a knife and threatened the people around him. one man tried to get the knife from him and got slashed across his stomach. he fell down and it looked like he was about to be stabbed to death. then maybe another man intercepted. and then, at some stage, all the fighters stood and bowed to now applauding onlookers. this was a performance and nobody was injured. i was really angry that i was made to feel frightened for the sake of street performance.
chris was in my bed, so perhaps that's why he featured in the dream. i told him of this the next morning. i haven't remembered a dream since.
most of my dreams have circulated around fear and uncertainty. i wonder if the anticipation of seeing haneke's the white ribbon was intercepting with my sleeping thoughts. i saw it last night. that deserves its own post and further contemplation on my part, but it seemed to connect to the trajectory of my dreams. though maybe it has made me more fearful and anxious in my waking life, because there's no writing this off as fiction.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
bad sleep, more dreams
#1
paul kelly, the singer, wants me. he messages me on facebook to tell me so. he keeps contacting me. i'm sort of flattered, because it's paul kelly, but i'm not sure. because i'm sort of seeing somebody. and i'm staying in a room out the back of an old house and paul from melbourne is there too. too many pauls.
#2
i remember that i'd met with 2 potential supervisors from UTS, but forgot to tell them that i'm staying at UNSW. i can't quite remember who they were. one seemed a lot like larissa behrendt, and i'd met with her in my kitchen, where she told me i'd lots of work to do. i liked her. the other supervisor is hazy. but i remember that they were both nice, and as some time had slipped it would now be awkward to tell them i don't need them. as far as they knew, they were my real supervisors. i felt really awful, but still couldn't tell them.
#3
i'm at my brother's house (which is not his real house). my whole family is there. i'm with a partner, but i have no recollection of who this is. we give my brother and sister-in-law really crappy, cheap gifts. everyone else gives they something decent. i try to hide one of ours, pretending i'm keeping it away from the kids. at one point my niece is sitting in a high chair, eating, but turns around to push her hands into a piece of stretched white plastic behind her. it's very stretchy. i'm on the other side, so push it also, playing with her. it's fun, until i grab both her hands and then she freaks out and stops playing.
paul kelly, the singer, wants me. he messages me on facebook to tell me so. he keeps contacting me. i'm sort of flattered, because it's paul kelly, but i'm not sure. because i'm sort of seeing somebody. and i'm staying in a room out the back of an old house and paul from melbourne is there too. too many pauls.
#2
i remember that i'd met with 2 potential supervisors from UTS, but forgot to tell them that i'm staying at UNSW. i can't quite remember who they were. one seemed a lot like larissa behrendt, and i'd met with her in my kitchen, where she told me i'd lots of work to do. i liked her. the other supervisor is hazy. but i remember that they were both nice, and as some time had slipped it would now be awkward to tell them i don't need them. as far as they knew, they were my real supervisors. i felt really awful, but still couldn't tell them.
#3
i'm at my brother's house (which is not his real house). my whole family is there. i'm with a partner, but i have no recollection of who this is. we give my brother and sister-in-law really crappy, cheap gifts. everyone else gives they something decent. i try to hide one of ours, pretending i'm keeping it away from the kids. at one point my niece is sitting in a high chair, eating, but turns around to push her hands into a piece of stretched white plastic behind her. it's very stretchy. i'm on the other side, so push it also, playing with her. it's fun, until i grab both her hands and then she freaks out and stops playing.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
last night's dream
i was boarding an aeroplane. there was an escalator that went up, somehow, through the aeroplane and ended on top of the plane. we (me and others i can't remember) got off the escalator onto the squishy surface of the roof. it was like foam covered in plastic. not too foamy, but soft, shiny and white. it has some give and my feet slightly sunk in, with each step. somehow i ended up near the nose of the plane. others were stepping off the escalator and descending into the aircraft in a nearby opening. i somehow, and slowly, started slipping off the curved edge. we were at a great height but i wasn't scared. i knew it was nothing to punch some holes in the foamy surface of the plane and climb back up. so i did. and i walked the squishy plastic to the entrance, then into the plane. an admin person from my school was on board also. it seemed we were traveling together, but sitting apart. i realised i didn't have a boarding pass or my passport, that they might be in my checked-in luggage. what could i do or say to the flight attendant? i talked with my admin about this, but she couldn't really help. she went and found her seat. i was quite scared that i might be kicked off the flight. how could i not think to bring my boarding pass, or at least my passport? i felt stupid and anxious.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
stylistically awkward
got my first reviewer comments back from a paper i wrote last year. 2 reviewers: one liked it, the other didn't. one ticked 'Yes, could be published with minor revisions', the other ticked 'Maybe, requires major revisions'.
Z1:
"While at times I wondered where the argument was going—as, for instance, in the discussion of the author’s eviction from her apartment and the size of students’ desks—the paper brought it back to the central topic and made it relevant."
Z2:
"if the paper’s consistent use of self-reference is a necessary aspect of its methodology and argument (something that is not evident in the paper’s current form, despite its thematic focus on subject/self), then this approach should be explained and justified at the onset"
Z2 asks for lots of explanation:
"The paper’s central question and argument seem implicit; rather these should be explicitly expressed in the introduction."
Z2 also says that it's "stylistically awkward".
the disparity here is reassuring. i do think my work either resonates or not. it connects to some readers but not others. and i think that's fine. actually, better than fine. an alternative might be to operate in a space of mediocrity where nobody is offended, yet nobody is excited either. at least the editor is excited (she used exclamation marks in her email). though maybe this is because she knows i'm a postgrad (the paper is adapted from a graduate conference presentation) and she's being extra nice on that basis.
editor:
"I'm most inclined to agree with the comments in Z1 - I think your paper is very powerful as a self-reflective piece - in fact, I loved it!"
so if it wasn't a peer-reviewed journal i'd be sorted? though something tells me these people aren't really my peers. well, not yet. not until i can feel affiliated with 'the academy'.
Z1:
"While at times I wondered where the argument was going—as, for instance, in the discussion of the author’s eviction from her apartment and the size of students’ desks—the paper brought it back to the central topic and made it relevant."
Z2:
"if the paper’s consistent use of self-reference is a necessary aspect of its methodology and argument (something that is not evident in the paper’s current form, despite its thematic focus on subject/self), then this approach should be explained and justified at the onset"
Z2 asks for lots of explanation:
"The paper’s central question and argument seem implicit; rather these should be explicitly expressed in the introduction."
Z2 also says that it's "stylistically awkward".
the disparity here is reassuring. i do think my work either resonates or not. it connects to some readers but not others. and i think that's fine. actually, better than fine. an alternative might be to operate in a space of mediocrity where nobody is offended, yet nobody is excited either. at least the editor is excited (she used exclamation marks in her email). though maybe this is because she knows i'm a postgrad (the paper is adapted from a graduate conference presentation) and she's being extra nice on that basis.
editor:
"I'm most inclined to agree with the comments in Z1 - I think your paper is very powerful as a self-reflective piece - in fact, I loved it!"
so if it wasn't a peer-reviewed journal i'd be sorted? though something tells me these people aren't really my peers. well, not yet. not until i can feel affiliated with 'the academy'.
Monday, May 17, 2010
sometimes i...
sometimes music makes my life beautiful. sometimes it's horribly distracting (because of its beauty). like this morning, when i'm shuffling in my seat at the goodness of these tunes. i've been tidying up itunes (oh yeah, probably mentioned that, my new neurosis. must... have... order.) in doing so, i've been listening to long gone, and newly discovered, songs. currently it's this:
for which i have to thank miranda after our music swap of a few weeks ago. i sort of missed the boat with the stone roses, but oh, how similar they are to the pains of being pure at heart, a current obsession. jangly goodness.
though for some time now i've been comparing them to the hummingbirds. and perhaps listening to more of each as a result. the hummingbirds is a vinyl experience (since last year's $2 purchase of a signed copy of love buzz), and the pains are a common ipod experience giving my walking journeys a nice tempo, lifting me 40cm from the pavement, i glide along.
of course, these bands are different and their music spans 3 decades and 3 continents. if i knew anything about the science of music i'd probably be able to articulate why they give me the same sort of kick. for now i'll just put it down to jangly goodness. i buzz. i float. i die. it's so distracting.
for which i have to thank miranda after our music swap of a few weeks ago. i sort of missed the boat with the stone roses, but oh, how similar they are to the pains of being pure at heart, a current obsession. jangly goodness.
though for some time now i've been comparing them to the hummingbirds. and perhaps listening to more of each as a result. the hummingbirds is a vinyl experience (since last year's $2 purchase of a signed copy of love buzz), and the pains are a common ipod experience giving my walking journeys a nice tempo, lifting me 40cm from the pavement, i glide along.
of course, these bands are different and their music spans 3 decades and 3 continents. if i knew anything about the science of music i'd probably be able to articulate why they give me the same sort of kick. for now i'll just put it down to jangly goodness. i buzz. i float. i die. it's so distracting.
Friday, May 14, 2010
more dead kennedys, more vinyl, less red wine
i drank red wine three nights in a row. not a lot, but some. and maybe that's bad. i have a hunch that it makes me emotional and stupid. or maybe i just use it to allow myself to believe that i'm not typically emotional and stupid.
on the 3rd night, last night, he canceled our plans for tonight. he said it's been a full on week, so postponed until mid next week. i was sad. i suspect he's freaking out. it has been a bit full on between us (though i don't know if he meant this). anyway, i like full on. and it doesn't pay to speculate too much, just to know that this is okay. and it is. but last night, when i felt like a sad, pathetic loser, i had to blame the red wine.
my rocketing studies have crashed once again. i've been sorting itunes, downloading music, fantasising about chris lowe, and today, jello biafra. today's youtube theme was dead kennedys. how can i not want his flailing arms around me?
i've also re-discovered the joys of ebay. and all things going well, tonight i will own this (on vinyl):
as well as this:
and then my life will be sorted and i probably won't have to leave the house. ever.
oh, and i also purchased a picture disc 7" of bananarama's shy boy. this does make me very happy. and OMG, i just looked for an image and discovered this! i don't understand. how do they work? how can they work? all i know is I WANT THEM!
on the 3rd night, last night, he canceled our plans for tonight. he said it's been a full on week, so postponed until mid next week. i was sad. i suspect he's freaking out. it has been a bit full on between us (though i don't know if he meant this). anyway, i like full on. and it doesn't pay to speculate too much, just to know that this is okay. and it is. but last night, when i felt like a sad, pathetic loser, i had to blame the red wine.
my rocketing studies have crashed once again. i've been sorting itunes, downloading music, fantasising about chris lowe, and today, jello biafra. today's youtube theme was dead kennedys. how can i not want his flailing arms around me?
i've also re-discovered the joys of ebay. and all things going well, tonight i will own this (on vinyl):
as well as this:
and then my life will be sorted and i probably won't have to leave the house. ever.oh, and i also purchased a picture disc 7" of bananarama's shy boy. this does make me very happy. and OMG, i just looked for an image and discovered this! i don't understand. how do they work? how can they work? all i know is I WANT THEM!
Thursday, May 13, 2010
actually
... i was trying to work this morning. blocked out the whole day. but then i checked facebook. bad move. or maybe not.a friend had 'liked' pet shop boys. i like pet shop boys. in fact i'd just gotten back into them in a big way, listening to behaviour a lot in the last couple of weeks. in love with nervously, and the general melancholia of this album, the sounds, the lyrics. it gets me every time.
and so, this morning, i find myself on youtube looking at videos like this one, and this one, and this one, etc.
and i'm thinking about chris lowe, again. and i think i need to write a zine about him.
there's a pattern of chrises in my world. there's the unrequited love chris of many years ago, who often re-enters my world. i write him letters, but he doesn't know this. he's the chris of the past. and recently, i met a chris of the future. he's nothing like the old chris. and then there's chris lowe, with whom i have had a long and sustaining relationship with, through his music. (his surname is almost love)
he's the silent pet shop boy. the one who stands in the background, never smiles, is often looking away, or hiding behind sunglasses.
and in looking for photos of him (for i have sustained a crush on him for many years, and often like to look), i found this biographer's note, which sealed the deal in me wanting to make a Chris Lowe zine. from this comes my working title of "the wall of silence".
for i think this is what it is about chris that gets my blood pumping. his silence. he's probably responsible for most of these sounds, yet he avoids speaking about them. he is there in body, but never does he really interact in videos, interviews, photoshoots, etc. the reluctant star. the serious boy. the shy boy. the man who chooses silence. and such a beautiful silence it is.
in the video clips i watch (80s to early 90s) he sometimes appears to be quite sad. i find myself wanting to love him. and i do, because i can love him. but perhaps not in the initial ways i wanted to love him. i wanted to get him, to know him, to understand his sadness, his distance, his inability to look at me.
but now i realise
that this is the force of my attraction, this distance. and i don't want to encroach on that space, for without this, i would probably cease to love him. therefore, the temptation to 'research' this man creates a certain tension in me. i want to get close to him, but i don't, because i already am. currently i construct him as i want him to be. the sad, serious and shy man. if i start to read things he says, or what others say about him, maybe this version of him will dissolve. maybe i'll stop watching PSB videos in the way that i do - eagerly searching for him in the background, trying to catch his eyes, or a hint of a smile. trying to catch him out, to get close.i love him for being elusive. if i met his gaze and found myself knowing him, then this could no longer happen.
so this zine will be about my love of chris lowe. but it will also be about a certain chris-ness. the infatuation with chris lowe didn't always exist. in fact i think it first peaked around the time that chris #1 stopped seeing me. he looks a little bit like this chris. they share a sadness. chris #2 is not sad though. he laughs at my jokes. he looks me in the eye. he's less chris lowe than chris #1. but they each share a name that punctuates my current feelings on love, connection, sadness, and music.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
this feels nice
i just sent my introduction off to supervisors. it was a bit of a mad rush (as it always is), but i made it. and very quickly, after pressing the send button, i grew to feel amazing. and capable. and excited by this weird and torturous (but not so torturous for now) process.
in the last 2 days i wrote descriptions of what i'm going to say in each of the chapters. some of it i pulled out of my arse. but much of that started to sound good. so yeah, maybe i just found myself a path to follow. let's hope it still feels good this time next week, or when i get feedback.
and now i'm off to eat dinner with a lovely man.
in the last 2 days i wrote descriptions of what i'm going to say in each of the chapters. some of it i pulled out of my arse. but much of that started to sound good. so yeah, maybe i just found myself a path to follow. let's hope it still feels good this time next week, or when i get feedback.
and now i'm off to eat dinner with a lovely man.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
men, feminism, gender, blah
I'm not doing the work I set out to do today. Instead, I found myself in my honours thesis, looking for something to extract and send to the Men and Feminism blog. I like the idea of the blog, but I'm kinda struggling with it, and other writings about men, feminism, gender, sexuality...
Is it just me, or is all the really mind-blowing stuff circulating about these things (men, feminism, gender, sexuality) the stuff that doesn't sit down to address these topics squarely? Isn't the best stuff a little bit sly in it's presence, a little bit playful, a little bit on the margins?
If I were to write 5000 words on my relationship to feminism it would not be interesting to read (or write). But if my feminism is a tool with which to write other things, this is more interesting (to me anyway). Same with my sexuality. What can I say about that? I'd rather let it inflect itself in my words, my practices, my life. And that, I believe, has political force. More so than obvious gestures towards a named (and therefore more coded, rigid, bounded) politics of gender, sexuality or feminism. Surely.
And potentially it has more reach. If I didn't care about feminism, I wouldn't read a blog about it. Though of course, the blog is a nice way to share things amongst believers. Not everything has to be designed to kick-start a revolution. So it's good. But not (yet) very enthralling (for me).
I need to be enthralled. Send me something.
Is it just me, or is all the really mind-blowing stuff circulating about these things (men, feminism, gender, sexuality) the stuff that doesn't sit down to address these topics squarely? Isn't the best stuff a little bit sly in it's presence, a little bit playful, a little bit on the margins?
If I were to write 5000 words on my relationship to feminism it would not be interesting to read (or write). But if my feminism is a tool with which to write other things, this is more interesting (to me anyway). Same with my sexuality. What can I say about that? I'd rather let it inflect itself in my words, my practices, my life. And that, I believe, has political force. More so than obvious gestures towards a named (and therefore more coded, rigid, bounded) politics of gender, sexuality or feminism. Surely.
And potentially it has more reach. If I didn't care about feminism, I wouldn't read a blog about it. Though of course, the blog is a nice way to share things amongst believers. Not everything has to be designed to kick-start a revolution. So it's good. But not (yet) very enthralling (for me).
I need to be enthralled. Send me something.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Fuck you very much
Swimming today, and I'm confronted with thoughts of heartbreak boy. I get to thinking I need to do something, say something, write something somewhere to say 'what the fuck?'
He was in town and asked if he could take me out for dinner on my birthday. He named the restaurant, he said we'd have wine, he said we should erase that last time we had dinner. He said all the right things, so I said yes to dinner.
Sunday night he doesn't come to the housewarming, after asking for an invite and saying 'see you there'. I was disappointed, but not too much. It was easier without him.
Monday midday he sends a 'happy birthday' text. I reply and ask if we're still on for dinner. He waits about 3 hours before replying to say 'Could well do, gotta pack tho' and asks if I'm having drinks that night or if that was the previous night. I say it was the previous night. No response. I worry and get angry and workshop it with friends before sending another text saying 'Don't worry about dinner'. I felt fucked around. It seemed he wasn't keen. I didn't want to feel fucked around. I wanted to say so much more, but didn't.
His reply: 'oh alright, enjoy ur day and cya next time x'. Time passed before i wrote 'Yeah, not sure if there'll be a next time. I'm disappointed by your lack of commitment to plans made. Guess i'm being too sensitive, but i find it hard to be otherwise'.
The next morning: 'Dear Sydney friends, sorry to disappoint but you know how it is when you've got family shit to do and only one weekend. thank you for understanding, cya in June, and know that i love ALL of you, [name with cutesy y on the end] x'.
No, you don't love me. And no, I don't understand. And no, I don't want your stupid bulk message apology. Nor do I want your meaningless x. No doubt you see me as demanding, but it was my fucking birthday. I kept that time free for you. I was stupid to do that. I could well have organised dinner with friends. As in, people who do love me, respect me enough to be there when they say they will, and aren't emotionally crippled and evasive fuckheads who crave attention, but no real intimacy. Fuck you. No really, fuck you.
And now I'm thinking about deleting you from fuckbook, but don't want to play stupid high school friendship games. So for now you're just muted. But I don't ever want to see you. For it kills me to know that if I do I'll be putty in your fucking hands. For some reason I can't not want you. Despite the hatred I feel for you right now.
I guess I believe that you're damaged. You told me once that you were licking your wounds, and this is the image of you that stays with me. You're scared of everything. You want me to want you but you won't let yourself want me back. You give me enough to keep me there. And when I get too close you bite. A wounded animal. And I think this is what draws me to you. I can see that you need help. I feel bad walking away. I want to fix you.
But you're too fucked up and I've got a paper to write. Adios.
He was in town and asked if he could take me out for dinner on my birthday. He named the restaurant, he said we'd have wine, he said we should erase that last time we had dinner. He said all the right things, so I said yes to dinner.
Sunday night he doesn't come to the housewarming, after asking for an invite and saying 'see you there'. I was disappointed, but not too much. It was easier without him.
Monday midday he sends a 'happy birthday' text. I reply and ask if we're still on for dinner. He waits about 3 hours before replying to say 'Could well do, gotta pack tho' and asks if I'm having drinks that night or if that was the previous night. I say it was the previous night. No response. I worry and get angry and workshop it with friends before sending another text saying 'Don't worry about dinner'. I felt fucked around. It seemed he wasn't keen. I didn't want to feel fucked around. I wanted to say so much more, but didn't.
His reply: 'oh alright, enjoy ur day and cya next time x'. Time passed before i wrote 'Yeah, not sure if there'll be a next time. I'm disappointed by your lack of commitment to plans made. Guess i'm being too sensitive, but i find it hard to be otherwise'.
The next morning: 'Dear Sydney friends, sorry to disappoint but you know how it is when you've got family shit to do and only one weekend. thank you for understanding, cya in June, and know that i love ALL of you, [name with cutesy y on the end] x'.
No, you don't love me. And no, I don't understand. And no, I don't want your stupid bulk message apology. Nor do I want your meaningless x. No doubt you see me as demanding, but it was my fucking birthday. I kept that time free for you. I was stupid to do that. I could well have organised dinner with friends. As in, people who do love me, respect me enough to be there when they say they will, and aren't emotionally crippled and evasive fuckheads who crave attention, but no real intimacy. Fuck you. No really, fuck you.
And now I'm thinking about deleting you from fuckbook, but don't want to play stupid high school friendship games. So for now you're just muted. But I don't ever want to see you. For it kills me to know that if I do I'll be putty in your fucking hands. For some reason I can't not want you. Despite the hatred I feel for you right now.
I guess I believe that you're damaged. You told me once that you were licking your wounds, and this is the image of you that stays with me. You're scared of everything. You want me to want you but you won't let yourself want me back. You give me enough to keep me there. And when I get too close you bite. A wounded animal. And I think this is what draws me to you. I can see that you need help. I feel bad walking away. I want to fix you.
But you're too fucked up and I've got a paper to write. Adios.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
i'm not going to
i'm not going to new york.
i'm not going to toronto.
i'm not going to montreal.
i'm not going to croatia.
i'm not going to paris.
i'm not going to marseille.
i'm not going to algiers.
i'm not going to morocco.
i'm not going to spain.
i won't be spending time with friends in these places.
i'll be staying on my stupid continent, working on my stupid phd.
and this makes me sad.
i'm not going to toronto.
i'm not going to montreal.
i'm not going to croatia.
i'm not going to paris.
i'm not going to marseille.
i'm not going to algiers.
i'm not going to morocco.
i'm not going to spain.
i won't be spending time with friends in these places.
i'll be staying on my stupid continent, working on my stupid phd.
and this makes me sad.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
pacifistically yours
these last few days i'm shuffling around, shifting goal posts, defusing the weaponry that i've placed around me. i want nice. i want respectful. i want to communicate openly, responsively, purposefully. i want to no longer blame other people for fucking things up for me.
i guess i've been projecting some fucked up things over the past year or so, and these things, i feel, have contributed to many relationship and communication break-downs. maybe, just maybe, i'm passive-aggressive. yikes. i'm always quick to call it, never so quick to own it. but maybe.
so yeah, my new mantra is to be nice, respectful, open. and to not jump to conclusions if someone doesn't respond to something i write or say. and to not blame people for bringing me down. and most importantly, to not find refuge in feeling misunderstood.
i hate to say it, but a lot of these feelings arose from attending the feminist conference on the weekend. i found it disappointing. i found that people didn't really listen to each other. i found that many people arrived with their agenda items, adamant to voice them, but not ready to engage in any real, useful, dialogue. what i did love was listening to Larissa Behrendt. she put me in the zone i needed to be in. she made me want to do something.
but in all, it was angry, bitter, and awkward. and i do wonder how you can change the world with anger. well, i guess it's warranted, but need it not be distilled into something else, something that shifts people, shifts ways of doing, rather than culminating in 'us' shouting at 'them'? so much 'us and them'. and that just marginalised most people there. i felt myself shifting between the margins in much of the conference discourse. as male, i was 'them'. but as a festival participant, i was 'us'. i was enlightened, but only to a certain extent. i was privileged. i was other. i was the upholder of the patriarchal system. but i wasn't. and i'm not. and i have much in common with 'the oppressed' if you wish to be spouting such language. but i don't think we should be. surely if you position yourself and 'your group' as the oppressed, then you put yourself in a bind. how can you ever move beyond 'them and us'?
there was much talk of 'the movement', particularly in the last afternoon summation. but i'm not interested in belonging to a unified movement. people felt the need to draw lines around 'the movement' and surmise who 'we' are and what 'we' stand for. what the fuck? isn't anyone aware of why the 2nd wave 'movement' fractured? identity politics is not useful here. 'we' are too many people with too many struggles to fit under one umbrella. gone is the time to move in one direction. mutual support is good. dialogue is good. respect is necessary. a delineation of 'the' movement is not.
maybe i'm stupid for thinking that we live in postmodern times.
i guess i've been projecting some fucked up things over the past year or so, and these things, i feel, have contributed to many relationship and communication break-downs. maybe, just maybe, i'm passive-aggressive. yikes. i'm always quick to call it, never so quick to own it. but maybe.
so yeah, my new mantra is to be nice, respectful, open. and to not jump to conclusions if someone doesn't respond to something i write or say. and to not blame people for bringing me down. and most importantly, to not find refuge in feeling misunderstood.
i hate to say it, but a lot of these feelings arose from attending the feminist conference on the weekend. i found it disappointing. i found that people didn't really listen to each other. i found that many people arrived with their agenda items, adamant to voice them, but not ready to engage in any real, useful, dialogue. what i did love was listening to Larissa Behrendt. she put me in the zone i needed to be in. she made me want to do something.
but in all, it was angry, bitter, and awkward. and i do wonder how you can change the world with anger. well, i guess it's warranted, but need it not be distilled into something else, something that shifts people, shifts ways of doing, rather than culminating in 'us' shouting at 'them'? so much 'us and them'. and that just marginalised most people there. i felt myself shifting between the margins in much of the conference discourse. as male, i was 'them'. but as a festival participant, i was 'us'. i was enlightened, but only to a certain extent. i was privileged. i was other. i was the upholder of the patriarchal system. but i wasn't. and i'm not. and i have much in common with 'the oppressed' if you wish to be spouting such language. but i don't think we should be. surely if you position yourself and 'your group' as the oppressed, then you put yourself in a bind. how can you ever move beyond 'them and us'?
there was much talk of 'the movement', particularly in the last afternoon summation. but i'm not interested in belonging to a unified movement. people felt the need to draw lines around 'the movement' and surmise who 'we' are and what 'we' stand for. what the fuck? isn't anyone aware of why the 2nd wave 'movement' fractured? identity politics is not useful here. 'we' are too many people with too many struggles to fit under one umbrella. gone is the time to move in one direction. mutual support is good. dialogue is good. respect is necessary. a delineation of 'the' movement is not.
maybe i'm stupid for thinking that we live in postmodern times.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
licking our wounds
he started a conversation in chat. i entered it cautiously. he asked when i was coming to melbourne, and into his arms. i responded to the first part of the question. i asked him when he's coming to sydney. he'll be here when it's my birthday. maybe i shouldn't have asked. i don't want to think about him on my birthday. i don't want to think about him at all. but i do. i willed him to say hello tonight, and he did. i enjoyed his flirting. i loved that i had his attention, his words, and that he was reading mine. we connected. for the first time, since his leaving, a conversation.
he asked if i'd found love. i said no. an odd question that i can't help dissecting. i asked if he had. he said he was still licking his wounds. from his ex, i assumed, but he wouldn't clarify. i can see that he likes me, thinks of me, maybe even wants me. but it feels like a game of cat and mouse. he's unpredictable, flighty, off the cuff. i can't read him. so i try be less engaged, less wanting, and speak to him from a distant, safe place. but i can't help wanting to be there, in his arms. where he'll no doubt rip me to shreds.
he asked if i'd found love. i said no. an odd question that i can't help dissecting. i asked if he had. he said he was still licking his wounds. from his ex, i assumed, but he wouldn't clarify. i can see that he likes me, thinks of me, maybe even wants me. but it feels like a game of cat and mouse. he's unpredictable, flighty, off the cuff. i can't read him. so i try be less engaged, less wanting, and speak to him from a distant, safe place. but i can't help wanting to be there, in his arms. where he'll no doubt rip me to shreds.
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