Exhaust

I wanted to continue this until I reached 100 posts, and despite the fact that I am almost there, I can't continue. I don't enjoy doing this anymore. I don't want to do it anymore. It started off being something I was so excited by, and loved, and thought about and cared for. Now it feels like an overdue essay. And I feel as if it is a door that needs to be closed. The past year's worth of cultural/historical/personal vomit can now be forgotten and left to rot in space. I am sick of not finishing things (art, writings, essays - the only thing I seem to finish is work, and books, but perhaps that is because I am consuming books, not producing), and so I will force a finish.

I'm not sure what to say now, or how I create some kind of formal conclusion.

I think this is it.

Projects

I was listening to some people on radio talk about the environment, and I felt guilty because I was driving at the time (it was a work car though, and I couldn't help that I had to be driving it), and they were talking about individual action (and partially about how ineffectual it is. So what if we reduce plastic bag production by 2 billion a year.....) and collective action, such as writing to local MPs (although it is a nice idea, I can't help feeling as if it is futile). I was thinking about how perhaps I should have a new project, now that Project Blog is drawing to a close. Perhaps I will write to politicians for a year. I was thinking about writing very sensible and reasoned polemic, but then realised that for the sake of 'art' and in a sense, posterity, I would rather write very personal letters about how I really feel about certain things in Australia at the moment. Are politics, art and self really seperable? I'm sometimes concerned that my desire to do things differently arises from a need to distinguish myself from others. Not that this in itself is a bad thing, but there are times when I feel a perverse drive towards alienation, because I want to prove myself to be irrespressible, non negotiable and resistant.

There is a beautiful warm and orange light coming through the window. I felt guilty when the people on the radio were talking about 100 watt light globes. I don't know if I can stand anything less.

Long Yet Laconic

I am so nearly at the end that I can hardly bear it! 7 more posts after this one I think. I am amazed by how eager I am to finish, how uninspired I feel, and how silly it seems to continue when I don't want to. All in the interest of symmetry perhaps?

I lay in a park and looked at the sky yesterday. A particular feeling creeps in: I can't speak adequately, and I make numerous attempts to articulate a particular feeling, and instead talk around it and around it and around it. It takes a long time, but somehow it is stupidly laconic. I can't express these feelings of fear and failure. I can't tell him that I am scared that he will leave me because there is so much wrong with me. It doesn't quite make sense the way it does in my head. There is a horrible disparity between what I feel and what I am able to say. Am I not able to speak when I need to? Yet I am so well equiped with the tools to do so.

Blogging feels stupid now. Are we over it now? Is there any future to it? Is it all just self indulgent wank that no one cares about? I can't be bothered reading other blogs now, when I was so excited by them to begin with. And I feel that if I leave mine to sit and fester here on its own, it will eventually disintegrate and no longer exist.