Attention!

I want to go to Nepal.

I am going to Nepal.

Will you help me?

Say aye.

Filed under: Blogroll

unravelling

hello hello… hello? No one. I thought so.

What do you want?

Nothing. Just someone to clear my head. Its a fucking pile of debris and I can’t see whats good anymore… whats good. yea that’s it.

*snorts*

Was I ever strong? Don’t remember. Had a huge fight with my friend. I said so many weak, ugly, mean, hurtful, selfish things. And you know what? The horrible thing is all of them were true. I mean everything that I say. Isn’t the truth supposed to liberate you? Why do I feel like such a messed up coke addict? I woke up this morning and the first thing on my head was that I must have hallucinated last night- saying all those things- unfurling my rage like this huge boil in the heart. I was drunk. Drunk on lucidity. Drunk like a gaping wound needing to be anaesthetised, drunk on mad, mad, delirious hurt.

Drunks are pathetic.

Stop it. You don’t know what it feels like when you’re drunk. You’re so honest, it hurts- you’re so unaware- its untrue.

So what do you want from me?

I just need to make myself feel better. I don’t know how to do that anymore, on my own- without letting my thoughts and words wash out on someone. I don’t know how to buy an ice cream, watch a movie, sit in the sun quietly- and recover, by myself. And I despise myself for that. I don’t know how to not count on someone. What is the indicator for strength?

Me?

Perhaps.

What else?

I question myself. Where have you gone, that guarded heart? That independent spirit, that person full of self-pride? Why can’t she return? I am still guarded, but in me I feel an oasis of need. The Grand Canyon of Need i read somewhere. That’s what I feel. That makes me open up too all too readily, like I have never before. And that makes me vulnerable, that makes me paranoid. I don’t know what is best for myself anymore. How do I deal? How should I walk from here?

I took a jog out of the house this morning, I needed to talk to someone. I raked my head for the people I know here- who will be available this Sunday? Who will be able to talk to me, listen to me, not judge me?

Did you find anyone?

No. Just you.

Do you think…. its true?

What?

That you’re messed up, a wreck, insecure and full of self doubt, faithless and troubled?

You’re supposed to tell me that. Because I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. I don’t know whether or not to judge the voice that yells a vehement no- that says I am logical, rational and that I am just going through a rough patch. And I am afraid of the voice that says yes, you are so messed up- because if I am, what will I become?

Maybe, its true. Maybe you are. Doesn’t make your concerns less valid. Doesn’t mean that all that is troubling you at the moment are fictitious made-up, blown out of proportion- but you’re just easy to cut, easy to hurt.

I feel so much anger. I close my eyes and it washes over me, again and again, with nowhere else to flow. No outlet. I write. But sometimes I think my words betray me. Sometimes I think that my words create more problems, rather than solve. I think that I imagine I am this libertine nineteenth century protagonist, melodramatic and forlorn- and only words can salvage my cries. I think my words undo me.

So now you doubt me?

Yes. Shut up.

Fine.

Don’t fine me. Don’t expect things to stop here, after all this. Help me pick myself up. Clean up the mess. Clear my head.

Its useless. You’re gone. I can feel your mind- its closing up on me. You don’t think I can help. You want someone real, yet you don’t know who. Your replacement is becoming invalid. You can’t use me, you can’t use anyone. Your problems cannot be solved. You just have to eat it all up. Swallow it like some tired mongrel with a last morsel of meat. What should you do? You have no ideas, you have no options.

Stop making me sound like a self sympathetic piece of bleeding heart.

Its true. All you are doing, is wallowing. What are you going to do- other than wallow?

Nothing. I’ll stop it now. You’re right, I am kinda in a wreck, she was right too. You’re right, I am wallowing and its time to stop despising myself. Stop it. Stop it.

Are you going to publish me?

Why not? These are deep dark secrets. But there is something ostentatious, something so satisfying about seeing you come public. They are revealing thoughts, but I am not disarmed.

Filed under: heartaches, written word

Perhaps I shall write

Its 5.36pm and I am in the State Library of Victoria, wildly at peace.

My book -The Bride Stripped Bare- and my narrator’s voice is ripe in my mind. Written in second person, the author beckons me into her world of desperation. She – writes ‘you’- so I suppose, collectively we sit in the depths of an old and anonymous library surrounded only by the quiet of words and thoughts. She is heartbreakingly married, but seducing her lover in her mind, yet is also teasing coyly the Oxford types in the library going pantyless upon a second floor divided from the first by patterned cast-iron grails, all this with her pen poised between slim fingers as she aches to write a novel storying an oppressed nineteenth century genteel woman drowning in the misogynist rule of her marriage.

Me. I am sitting cold and relentless in a foreign, oak-ed swivel chair, parked at a fifteen-minute access computer terminal, chalking sets and sets of fifteen nobody wants. The noiseless heels around me, the darkening sky from the dome of the Latrobe reading room, ground me; just as my relentless  a-hundred-and-one wants, needs, fears, guilts, and pleasures -neurosis- bombard my senses and I write, only to satiate.

It is an oasis of calm. The cold allows me to collect my thoughts- my fingers fly across the keyboard, for warmth and for catharsis,  never more agile – I’ve always wanted to play an instrument.

From where should I begin to take action? Should I take heed first from within- my fleeting dreams, my intense curiosities, my travel lust, my grander ambitions, or from without- my my coming-of-age responsibilities, my relationships that buoy me, the friendships I wish to cement, the desired environment I wish to live in? Should I act upon what I have but fail, or should I actively seek what I do not have? Should I spend recklessly or should I save for a cause, should I earn or should I gallivant, can I ever be a sly hedonist, despite all my self-righteous pompousness about my sensibilities, my noble aspirations and my measured life? And at the heart of my questions- what and how to pursue remorselessly?

Mood swings. These days I am indulgent and greedy of creature comforts: sleeping in, wolfing food I never craved for, lounging, waxing lyrical, delaying, it is a languid and buoyant self at best- and at other times- I am a bundle of nervous energy: I draw lists, make plans, read books thoughtlessly as if to devour the book in my need for accomplishment,  I am of criss-crossed wires of conflicting priorities, raw, angry at times; bouts of self-loathe and self-love co-exist, I must have mentioned too many a time.

Perhaps I shall dress for the library. I shall come every day and set my thoughts straight like that every other day. Yes. Perhaps I shall write.

Filed under: places, quirks, written word

let me grow my roses today

What happens tomorrow?

Some of us have got races to win, some have got decisions to make. Some of us have nothing to do, some will have everything to do, and for some, it will be yet another day ahead of us. Some of us will be win, and of course that means some of us will lose.

I don’t know what consequences the above will bring. All I know is-

Some of us, like me, have a plane to catch. The one tomorrow is to Sydney, for seven days- ooh a little holiday. A happy plane is tomorrow’s. But in about a month, it will be a plane out of Australia, out of Melbourne. And it won’t be a happy plane, for I will be heartbroken.

Lets take our time, today not tomorrow, tonight not the next morning. Let’s have wine and cheese and smell, no- grow- yes grow, our roses.

Filed under: Blogroll, daily grind, musings

the daily evening routine

There was a careless whisper echoing in his ear, to which sighed, made a groan, gave a hungry growl- then he began to grunt, wail- and then, he let out a scream.

All these as he ripped around what you would call a kitchen with a hunger so primitive only his mere human form curbed the beastly movements. You would call it a kitchen, but to him, it was more like an urban jungle.

Steel bowls were overturned, shoved aside- flour descended upon the kitchen bench in clouds. Bottles of condiments were sniffed, hanging chunks of ham were snatched, then tossed aside. The curious noises he made continued to fuel his search- for something he might not have understood very well himself. Cupboards were swung open and left exposed, revealing what sleek cream veneers were hiding: the most rudimentary (perhaps even garish) assortment of plates and bowls and cups stacked, arranged in carefully arranged lines.

He rolled over drawers, picked through metal, wood and fluff- sending quiet spiders a-scuttle. He hunted haphazardly, urgently. Finally, he stopped making the noises. The grunts lessened, the inward groans quietened, the occasional wail ceased.

Then nothing.

From his squat position, he stood up, dusted himself, strode to the leather armchair in the drawing room where he had abandoned his Sunday paper- picked it up and settled back into the inviting leather, slipped his feet back into his checkered slip-ons, and continued to read.  

Filed under: written word