Yung & Easily Freudened

fancy pants

Doubt anyone reads this anymore, ever since I made my wordless transition to private journals. Why was my last post so angry? Can’t really remember. Something about power stapling. Denise said this in class today about Churchill, how her lines in the millennium plays are quotational and devoid of self. That’s something I’ve always wanted to do – echo platitudes in a play for a purpose. Do away with ums and ahs and write some scathing social critique. But these days I save my wit for people who will laugh immediately at it. Friends, cats, my chickens are also very responsive. I told my sister that I thought no-one cared at the end of the day but him. I miss cycling. My nose is pink now even if you can’t see it.

[rant]

7.10pm and she comes to my desk carefully hidden behind the stairs. 7.10 and she asks me to FUCKING punch paper holes and FILE THINGS WHICH SHE KNOWS MORE ABOUT, and WHICH SHE COULD EASILY HAVE DONE FASTER DURING THE TIME SHE TOOK TO EXPLAIN IT TO ME. Nevermind that I already have a thousand and one papercuts from putting up the banners for the event yesterday. Nevermind that I get intern’s pay and don’t get overtime and she does – nevermind that she gets HEALTH BENEFITS and BIRTHDAY CAKE AT STAFF MEETINGS which I am left out of and her stupid jokes get LAUGHS – I WANTED TO STAPLE HER PROFESSIONAL PUFF TO THE CEILING FUCKYOU you stupid stupid wasteofmytimeNOTWRITINGPOETRY overprofessional NAZI/JEW/NAZI/JEW I CANT DECIDE WHICH IS A BIGGER INSULT BAI.  [/rant]

sciences po’ (litiques)

Sometimes its hard to tell people on webcam that something’s not okay. But to all the people whose silences I miss, here are some words from the controversial- dramatic, purple-prose, sari-swirling Roy.

“Estha had always been a quiet child, so no one could pinpoint the degree of accuracy exactly when (the year, if not the month or day) he had stopped talking. Stopped talking altogether, that is. The fact is that there wasn’t an ‘exactly when’. It had been a gradual winding down and closing shop. A barely noticeable quietening. As though he had simply run out of conversation and had nothing left to say. Yet Estha’s silence was never awkward. Never intrusive. Never noisy. It wasn’t an accusing, protesting silence as much as a sort of aestivation, a dormancy, the psychological equivalent of what lungfish do to get themselves through the dry season, except that in Estha’s case the dry season looked as though it would last forever.

Over time, he had acquired the ability to blend into the background whereever he was – into bookshelves, gardens, curtains, doorways, streets – to appear inanimate, almost invisible to the untrained eye. It usually took strangers a while to notice him even when they were in the same room with him. It took them even longer to notice that he never spoke. Some never noticed at all.

Estha occupied very little space in the world.”

(the passage after this hilarious – he sees the reflection of a hopeful, flying bird in his dog’s shiny balls. …but i’ve got too much work to type it out.)

On other things, I went for a French friends picnic at the Carlton Gardens – some of them really are snobs (making fun of the wannabe Quebecoise who translate everything!). The rest tho, are lovable daft-punk-dancing nuts. My vodka and I formed a special agreement that night.

Also, at a Physics barbeque on the South Lawn, they were dipping spring flowers in liquid hydrogen and breaking them like glass. So amazing. I smashed a sausage with a sledgehammer. For all the feminists, yeahhhhh mothafuckaaaa!

babysitting a ferret

Unasked solitude is th’ best. I’m curled up in my friend’s apartment watching a furry snake run rounds in the living room, and trying to do a sociology essay on ethnicity but convinced that it’s like shitting pineapples, seriously. Sociology really is a toilet paper degree – all you do afterward is scribble poetry about your melted brain. (Sorry sociology majors) I don’t have new songs, I don’t have new news. Wheeeeee

but before the weight/Of stones and hills of stones could break/Her down to mere quartz grit in that stony light/She turned back.

A short hai from Melb. I am now living out of a backpacker sharehouse packed with people. The kitchen is feral, but the people seem sweet, and so I will probably continue this (sp)iffy experience for the 2 months until I return home and figure something else out. Gone is the comfort of warm fudz and fatcat and fireplace and room of my own, but that is alright (I assure myself), because in light of recent events involving bitchy landlady, the better situation is now. I cannot say how much The Cinematic Orchestra has saved my nerves these past few months – they come highly recommended. Even the weather reports seek to assuage hints of depression – seems like its getting warmer! I felt so stupid in my coat today that I stripped at the traffic light. Pedestrian pole dance, anyone?

K, terrible images aside, I should get back to my essay on Plath, who is so astonishingly wonderful. I love poets who leave me breathless, and sometimes the first lines of Howl run through my head more often than they should.

somedays i’d really rather not exist

na.

an adaptation.

You lie shivering in a paper dress,
and suddenly I can’t look at your thighs, your legs,
the threat beneath each
perfect ounce of flesh. How can I take care
of what I can’t see? Too much
of a naise thing and I think of you, of
beard and salt, sweat, spit, curls, the way this won’t
go on forever. I switch off the lights to leave,
waking up in the darkness of that Monday morning,
where each part of you I take into my mouth
gets a goodbye kiss. Soon even consciousness
will be terrible. Your father speaks about hunger,
I want to tell him you’re immortal.
I want to tell you more than just I <3 you, that
I can barely believe in our bodies,
that we’re made of water, that we trust
our skins, that we believe this dream
of insolubility, this promise: I won’t
swallow you. What is there to love
but your symptoms, flushed cheeks, hazelled
eyes, constellations of freckles, frantic
feverish heart? I run my nails down
your spine, inhale your ears, lay my fingers
in the spaces between your ribs, and on the eastward bus, try
to remember that sobbing too
is a system functioning perfectly, that longing
is nothing without loss.

Gaga after the 42nd time

Food poisoning can be quite… cleansing, even in the more metaphorical sense. Thinking about things – having been dragged off on family holiday to Phuket, missing a flight, trying to forget about the future, people’s blasé status updates.

Yeah, so, I missed a flight. I picked my brother up from his school trip to the bowels of Indonesia at the airport, and in the terminal confusion, stood at the airline counter nervously waiting for a Norwegian man to finish his litany of woe before I could start mine. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my brother perched on our airport trolley with his head in his hands. I hadn’t felt such a sinking dread since … a long time ago, and the need to externalize this in talking about it to people – evaporated. ‘Mistake was rectified in an hour or so, but some isolation didn’t leave me, and I don’t imagine it will for a while. The days ahead will be the careful grasping of cicak fingers upon a wet black bough.

I read somewhere, and I can’t for the life of me find where, that we find so few places to keep our general complaints and everyday ennui (verified English translation of sian), and I think of work, filling in forms and totaling the biometric body count being shipped to UK for the day. Workmates, passive aggressive from the boss lady, and being let out like a caged animal into the fading daylight, bleary-eyed, dazed and starving. This is not the life, but often I come home to you, on gtalk, your sweet face injured from the hours that I have not spent replying your messages, and talk about my day. You rarely have much to say these days after your ACL knee operation, having spent the whole day waiting on painkillers, but you wordlessly send me lovely, painful music. I wish I could inflict you on anyone I know that could appreciate sympathy, and I’m so glad you’re alive. To the SPCA peoples: can I keep it forever and ever?!

Things to look forward to:

x Gay Drag Movie Marathon

x Eating 3 meals a day

x Glee Ep21

x Akasa Kusum

x work ending

x mobility mothafuckas

if i could explain my life through a string of youtube links, i would sure as hayl try

(reposted after dreamcoat joleen reminded me of her – maggie is the woman behind ‘i am the sex goddess of the western hemisphere’ ‘;D)

An interesting find for slingawhore (what some of my expat friends refer to the land of red and white as) :

http://www.singaporelodge.org/slodge.htm 

They’ve invited me to one of their lectures tmr. So going. Some Tibetan music I’ll try to sneak in to the pre-class meditation.

Beginning to regret this whole Melbourne decision, even as long as I have waited. If I could transfer to somewhere like NTU Lit, I would in a heartbeat, because that would mean so many things – a contented sigh of the heart, for one, a less worried father, a more hopeful sister, the ability to be there for the people I have come to love so much. But I’ll cross that bridge when I fall off it.

fleeting wood mac

Sorry I just need to articulate this, because I haven’t been doing so for a bit. Some drama during the week – fell off my bike in front of a church (Holy Trinity no less). Hahah guess I’ve been saying too many agnostic things about God. So… I couldn’t manage the walk home, because I’d ended up in a tangle with my bicycle on the driveway. (1) badly scraped elbow, (3) collected bruises, (1) marginally dislocated ankle. Feel like a victim of an unmerciful god. But what the hell, I’ve watching movies and I’ve been visited at home by bearded boy, so 8)

Also watched 2 Days In Paris, which is hilarious!!