"You're one in a million....you're one in two"

A Furious Spring Leg

A Complex Living Growing Skin

Not a film as before, but a real live workable (sometimes permeable), not perishable skin. I'll build my own complex casing. This is what has occured to me since the conversation with KF on Saturday night. We drank beer and smoked until 4.00am (although I only had 1 beer when we got home because I had chosen the sensible driving the car option because it makes me feel slightly grown up and as if I have some modicum of responsibility and respectability), and she expressed sadness, joy, anger, pride, regret, hurt and desire. Next to her I feel wan and slightly lifeless. It is funny kno0wing that she is reading this. It is a strange version of self conscousness that I enjoy, as it makes people feel conscious, self and other. Perhaps one of the most exhilarating things about knowing other people is experience the range and immenseness of them. KF is an immense person in many ways, and I am inspired by her confidence and belief in good things. I felt embarrassed yet ridiculously flattered by the things she said, in an unearthly way. I always seem to need a safety net though. Perhaps this can be replaced by the semi hermetic yet giving and living skin I plan to grow? This has made me look at skin, and here today, amongst all these young people I saw a girl with a horrible skin problem on her neck. It was brown, cracked and wart-coloured. Whilst staring intently at her neck, I was thinking about celebrating that which is discoloured and disfigured, and I wondered where our ideas of what skin really is come from. This of course is reminding me of that Didier Anzieu thing in Volatile Bodies. It changed the way I thought about skin and communication.

When I examine the lives of my female friends, my sister, my colleagues (to some extent), I realise that I don't know many women who are the quiet ideal. My friends are loud, intense, intelligent and tempestuous. My sister is strong, brilliant, vital, beautifully considered and intensely herself. I struggle to imagine this non confrontational woman, although I do know one or two, and despise what they do. Perhaps it is true that we are all too much, and that the simpering slight sprig of a woman is infinitely more attractive and manageable than us? When do I decide to be a martyr for my own cause, or when do I decide to lie down in love and devotion and give myself over to the pleasures of the flesh? Look at someone like Shirin Neshat, and how much of a challenge she must be. Is she a martyr for her cause? I never tire of sacrifice and drama. But recently I have thought about sensible emotional decisions. This arises from the conflicts MP and I had about my unwillingness to compromise certain things. It seems like a moment of choice. I no longer have the desire to punish myself emotionally. It was a result of my belief in intensity, and how my experience of the world should constantly be emotionally exquisite, sensitive, turgid and consuming. Perhaps now I am more a believer in cautiousness rather than impulsiveness? What did Shirin Neshat sacrifice in order to achieve the things she felt passionate about?

I have been reading some of Hanif Kureishi's short strories (Love in a Blue Time), which have been addictive. Yesterday in the bath I read a story called The Tale of The Turd, which was about a recovering (or not recovering?) junkie who has to shit at his partner's parents house. The turd won't flush away and turns out to be alive....a green eyed little monster. I wanted to laugh, and eventually I did, but my first response was 'jesus, but this is utterly outrageous!' Of course it is utterly outrageous, which is why it was good. What would Bataille have thought of it eh? It seemed outrageous to cross the very serious world of fiction with the nasties of the body. The unspeakables of the body. Of course, little community, you know that this subject is one very close to my heart (and arse I suspect), and there are some of you who HAVE to read this story.

I have also found an online etymological dictionary, which is really exciting for me! Now I never need to leave the world of flowery language.

My father's post relationship journey has begun with the most intense release of previously stifled being I can imagine. He is creative, contemplative and scared. I wrote an email to him today about the process of renewal that all 4 of us are experiening. ZP and I talked about it for a long time on Friday night, and I realised that opportunity is not a superstitious occurance, but a result of enmeshed lives and lived in selves. God, he,I...we are well worn in, well lived in, have made our indelible marks on ourselves, and now we are choosing to change, and it is powerfully real. The tectonics of all of our relationships are shifting, in alignment, misalignment, alienation, intense closeness.....there is a groundswell afoot in the little family (are we still a family?), and I can't believe how liberating this feels.

So he has decided that he wants to write a book. I encourage this as he lacks the confidence to express who he really is. Perhaps between pages he can exist as the fantasy self (or the imaginary self - that life saving projection onto the wall in front of you, or onto everyone and everything you know, that mechanism for survival....). He called me this morning and said that he had emailed me. Below is some of what he wrote:

I am sorry if what follows is boring/silly/self indulgent whatever. I am bouncing ideas around. I think about my life and the things/jobs/hobbies etc. The idea simply (not so simple really) has to be teased out and written down in this work of fiction developing in my head. Can I get the crazy employee living on campus, the chain smoking dyke on the Harley, the control freak wife, the free wheeling bloke with theWinnebago/boat and a housing crisis, the rational wealth creation plan within the hype and spin of the financial planning industry, can a partner ever bounce in the same direction (off thewall)IE is a Winnebago Wife a possibility (about sea-change/Australian demography really), the control freak and a minor indiscretion, the Longines watch and the reinforcement of doubt, the moving theatre of offshore yacht-racing and the crap men talk and laugh about, the concentration and stimulation of one-design racing and what men take seriously, the art of living with a soft touch (not hurting others), care and sensitivity for hairy blokes, The Spooky Men's Corale and bloke-ism, you always have a choice, where does happiness lie, miniaturization men and the economy(something to do with owning cheaper belongings), Zen and the art of being a bloke (about enjoying now),those we instantly like, the catholic priest the child-carer and disgrace (ties in with 'where does happiness lie'), unconditional love (very personal will have to be written with great care), around Ireland with a fridge (well the Ireland experience/laughs), into a humorous, entertaining and interesting essay/short story/book. There is plenty to write about. Easier if it were an essay. But it has to be fictional characters, about their lives, certainly not true, circumstances embellished etc.I guess
its going to be about a bloke bouncing off walls and heading off in different directions. How do you invent a whole lot of characters and weave this stuff into a story? I wonder if that is the best starting point?

I Know All There Is To Know About The Crying Game

It is so fucking hot today. Sometimes things seem ridiculously complex and ridiculously simple. I feel pleasure at the fact that it is Friday.

I have been getting into a magazine called What We Do Is Secret in the past week. Having only just discovered it, I am not totally commited or obsessed with it or anything. But the latest one had a beautiful review written by someone I know in Hobart. I loved it because it was passionate, rude, involved a lot of swearing, and mostly, because it was personal. I also really loved the article about activist art. It is free and you can get it at Polyester (music) on Brunswick St.

I know all there is to know about the crying game today because it is hot and I often feel like crying when it is hot, despite the fact that I really enjoy it. My eyes feel hot and liquidy, and I am sticking to things, which is an idea I like. I like the idea of connecting with objects, and sticking to them with sweat. It is all too human.

Shameless

I can't begin to explain how into Shameless I am at the moment. The second series began on Monday night, and there were some beautiful moments (like Veronica pretending to be on with Karen saying "she makes me fanny go all wavy") and although AM and I were scared it might be a bit shit in the second series, it is still wonderful. We watched the episode open mouthed and gasping.

I am at uni. I don't know what I am doing here. The air conditioning in the library isn't working, so there are fans and sweaty people. It is making me feel sick. I am tired from talking, and emotionally drained. I am confused, scared, ballistic, sad, excited.........I talked to AM about these things in the car. Sometimes I loathe concentrating and I want to stare at something minute and think about its relationship to me. God, what am I saying?

Being here makes me feel guilt, because I know how much stuff I have to do, and how frequently I choose not to do it. I think I am no longer a proper uni student. It is half arsed commitment, which is shit, because I really love this and want it. I also want to work and feel more connected to the world.

God I feel so ill I have to get out of here. The air is warm and making my lungs feel wet (I know they are already) and clammy, or mouldy or something?? You know that sweltering hot damp air feeling and all you want is desperately cold air? I am so fucking dramatic, at times it upsets me.

Vest Yourself In Me

David Shrigley




I have been having transcendental swimming experiences recently. When I swim I seem able to disconnect myself from myself, or my mind from my body (although I don't want to be all dualist here) and I listen to the sound of my breathing, and the exhalation growl I can't help but make. It is a sensual experience at what is for me, a sensual time of day. The end of the day. The combination of skin, light and water. I stop sometimes to look at the sky, and then to look at the other people in the pool. It feels like a very gentle time of day. I feel as if time is malleable sometimes, as if I can extend day if I choose to. Cyril Collard in Savage Nights talks about "the hour of the wolf" - that half-light dusky moment between day and night. In Swedish it is called Vargtimmen, and in Danish it is called Ulvetimen. Do we have a word for it? Is it because that quality of light is so present in the north of the northern hemisphere? I find this interesting because of the problems/concerns I have with light (I can just hear AC and AB laughing or groaning), and specifically the emotional effects of light on people. I remeber the sky after I had gone to the airport in Dublin one evening, and the light was the most beautiful I have ever seen - a weak, streaky yet bright light quite late into the evening. The light was one of the only things I really loved about Dublin. In summer it isn't fully dark until about 10.00pm. This extended light makes me feel secure, safe, brave, excited.....

My Cold Bretheren Abroad

Nervous, Yet Hard Boiled (???)

I don't know if I can sustain this intense fervour and nervousness, like cerebral priapism. I feel turgid, alive and quietly mutating. Osmosis. When I spoke to MP the other day....well, I feel like it was a different person speaking to him. And perhaps I am DIFFERENT? I have often waited for the feeling of difference to be upon me, but have always been made sad by my unsurprising sameness. A kind of diligent sameness, as if difference would be beside the point, or losing the point, or not the point. I don't fucking know. I have a song in my head, the lyrics of which are "tonight I'm feeling like an animal..."

I survived the Return of the Matriarch. What a small matriarch she is too. Had dinner with AW, and was relieved to watch them talking about pregnancy (clearly a topic that is quite foreign to me!). There is that amazing sense of specialness when your mother talks about the time after you were born. It is time I can't control, or own in any way, and in a sense, I feel as if it is a power she has over my reality. It is ridiculous I know, and the world is (way too) rife with these feelings of ownership and discomfort. It is a feeling of disquiet though, of wanting to move away from her. Especially now. At one point during dinner I had to go to the toilet to tell her one of the craziest things I have ever heard. Thank god she is my sister. She is one of the most sensible people I know. Strange how just a few days of talking and thinking can make you believe you are someone else. Or at least that you FEEL like someone else.

Expletives Included: A S(L)urprising Conversation

I felt awkward, confused, kind of stupid and shy. Possibly there is no way to overcome these things. I want to know everything at once, and I want to say everything at once. This reminds me of summer, when I was on holiday and I spent days talking to CH at my house. We sat opposite each other and drank heaps of tea and talked about all the things we could think of. It never exhausts me. Now she is back in New Zealand and her brother is here instead.

So. What happens now I wonder at 2.00am, feeling electrified and nervous?

Bugs in Jars

I went to the Bugs Alive thing at the museum ages ago. This photo is old but I really love it.

I Flew Too Close to the Sun and Burnt My Wings

So I have been looking at some other blogs recently. I checked out the one that won the blog award thing. The thing that really strikes me about blogging is that people write a whole lot of messy, weird, often cryptic stuff about themselves and their own lives. As text (god, starting to sound very wanky now) it isn't especially accessible. It seems to me like the author reclaiming ground and making up for lost time. I enjoy the process and the catharsis obviously, but because I am not creating coherent narrative, or even providing points of access necessarily, it is a piece of stuff that is powerfully and necessarily me. So what would Barthes and Foucault have to say about this new style of authorship? The non censorious nature of the blog is interesting too. This kind of writing really allows you to run at the mouth and become very self absorbed. I don't think of it as publishing, I suppose it seems to me like emails to myself, and a forum for my friends to criticise me anonymously. Not really. But I do love the fact that it provides parallel conversations and allows us to explore each other differently. I sometimes feel embarrassed by the fact that I am doing this, in a kind of 'who do I think I am' way. But then, I know that in Australia we generate a 'who are we' kind of culture. It is an amorphous and often awkward identity, and we are sometimes an incoherent disparate group of people who aren't really allowed to feel anything too grand about ourselves. And so at times I feel like I am creating a false self here, but in fact it is a twinned identity, as it is more me than I am in person, yet heavily censored and awkward.

I think I am proud of my blog, because it is the first time I have presented myself to anyone in this way, and felt legitimate doing it. KF has been a huge influence on me with her fantastically powerful sense of 'me-ness' that comes across in (seemingly) everything she does. She has made me feel as if expressing myself in the ways I find meaningful is an acceptable thing to do. I know that sometimes I am terribly rigid and that I find it difficult to change the things that have been long felt. Also, I suffer terribly from embarrassment. I read my book of lists recently, and found a list of things I find embarrassing, one of which was the sound of water being poured from a kettle to a cup. I decided that if I found that book of lists (if I was not me), I would think the person who wrote them was rather weird. But that's ok as AM would say. Anyway, excuse me, I digress....KF has been fantastic for me because of her vitality, openness, strength and intelligence. Often I forget that there are in fact other people out there in the world beyond the ones I know and love. I think this is kind of boring so I'll stop now.

Another thing: it makes me sad that I have written so fucking much on here, and perhaps no one will ever read it all. Perhaps I need to go back to being a ridiculously secretive compulsive diarist? I don't think I have thought enough about purpose.

And I have some more questions for you, crazy little community:

• do you think that you have any kind of purpose in your life?
• what boundaries would you never transgress?
• how often do you feel proud of yourself but aren't able to express it?
• do you ever feel spiritual?
• how do you balance modesty and self esteem?
• what are your biggest sources of pleasure?
• what associations do you make between different things/conditions that are meaningful? For example an association between love and home (KF, you'll know what I mean here)

Sleepless

I watched a Dario Argento film last night called Sleepless. I would love to have seen the reactions of AM and I towards the end when the villain is shot in the head through a window. The thing that was striking about it was that the bullet came through the back of his head and out the front, so his face exploded. It was this amazing eruption kind of thing. I realised that I have never seen anything like that before in film or tv. It was a very non-traditional film shooting, and almost rather beautiful. It reminded me of a film I once saw where a man was shot with a machine gun, and his body convulsed and danced about quite comically. There was something satisfyingly beautiful about that too.

I went to bed and quivered and twitched, feeling that horribly familiar electrical current run through me. I want to learn how to sleep deeply and effectively, but I think in some way I am too scared to do it.