|Subject:||On the off chance someone reads this|
I've decide to move this over livejournal - sick of waiting ages every time I want to update. If anyone is interested, it's the same url, obviously replacing 'blurty' with 'livejournal'
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I didn't sleep at all last night - I write now at 8am with a sense of murky jubilation. I managed to get halfway through 'The 100 Years of Solitude', alternating between that, Ronald Hayman's Sartre biography and Descartes' 'Meditations...'. Seems I can put my insomnia to good use - instead of mindlessly tossing in bed and surfing this godforsaken internet for slimy facts and odds and ends, I will now accept that sleep will not come to me until daylight hours and utilise the darker time.
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It's absurd, really. The sleepless man lies tormented in bed, lusting for sleep, when all the while he could be engaging in productive activity. While the senses are dimmed at that time of morning, when one lingers between the knowledge that they should be asleep and the lack of the will to be so, coffee and some light reading to pave the way for greater things alleviate that dimness with consummate ease. I suppose it's the old adage regarding the first step being the hardest - once you're convinced to get out of bed, brew coffee and set about whatever it is you wish to accomplish, there is no stopping you.
It's almost disappointing to have the Sun come up - for activity to resume for the rest of the world. The dogs begin to bark and the birds chirp - the noises of suburbia waking up a stark contast to the silence and sirens of night as they melt with the icy darkness into the mellifluous dischord of the daylight world. There's a proud sense of isolation in the hours that others sleep, and the feeling that the night is sharing something unique with you cannot be matched by the chirpy arabesque of daylight.
So, I return to my book.
So, the Southern Winter that I have been fortunate enough to avoid for the previous four years has settled in. I enjoy the cold, having grown up in Tasmania, but there is a special bleakness about Geelong - perhaps it is the total lack of romance about it all. There are no mountains in this part of the world - the closest attempt for hundreds of kilometres is more of a geological zit - so the spectacle of Winter is lost. There is no snow, no invigorating crispness, just week upon week of Bouville mud, icy wind and half-hearted rain. I hear news from not-so-afar about temperate Autumn afternoons, complete with cool breezes and wafting acoustic guitar, and wonder why I stay here.
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It's not an issue of choice, as such, but one of perseverance. Perhaps I have to prove to myself that I can stick out a year of my life that will not contain any adventure, any epiphanies. A staunch hope that enduring the -absolute- monotony of all of this will provide some real resolve to live, once it is all over, as if tomorrow truly does not exist. It's a recurrent theme, hammered in from every angle - that of building foundations (prisons) and nurturing roots (shackles). Maybe I should do the intelligent thing and put living on hold for a while, choosing instead to educate myself on myself - to build -that- foundation so that I may never need one again. It is, after all, easier to jump into the sky off a trampoline as opposed to a mud-ensconced hill.
So, a Winter of heaters, isolation, books and strong coffee. It's beginning to sound quite pleasant.
The past week has been a turbulent one.
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When one, or in this case the force of mitigating circumstance, crystallises an idea, a life-philosophy - that is, to rip it from thoughts and words and actually thrust it into existence - the intensity is phenomenal. We potter around with our thoughts, thinking them grand, yet never quite truly capitalising on the potential they exude. I suppose the courage to smash through the fishbowl comes only with a push from something - an impetus that, finally, cannot be ignored.
I am somewhat exhilirated. The nagging doubts are abating, and once again I may truly embrace freedom.
It gets colder outside.
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The slow descent into Winter becomes apparent as a clear Autumns day leaks insipidly to night. The atmosphere is awful – spoiled and putrid, with the texture of squashed plums. There is no wind, though a palpable sensation of movement exists in the ink. An unmistakable sensation of ‘hurtling’. Am I attuned to the rotation of the Earth and the pull of the mad, mad moon for some inexplicable reason this evening?
They are all still pushing past me, and I am, with that blithe look, being jostled about. The warmth of nonsense adorns the higher functions of my mind. Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. The word stings my ears. I can see behind your toothy smile, I can see the swimming mercilessness that dots the bones supporting those cheeks. I see the loathsome liquid colouring your teeth as it leaks from your gums. You are me – I am your image and over a gulf of misunderstanding teeters the bridge of unanimity.
Wolfish animosity – a playful desire to tear flesh and bathe in remains.
Another day comes to a close. It was warm, and I enjoyed some of its finer moments with the air of a gourmet. But I burst that grape on my ‘palate fine’. I’m looking to be constructive rather than just demonstrative, but I suppose that will come in time. I recognise you, abyss, and I shall not to ignore you nor fill you with merchandise. The worst of it all is right inside me – it is likely only possible to impose that which I can see within upon all that is without. Or even superimpose.
THE WAVE (for the purpose of QUT admissions)
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And so it goes, life trudges by. Accosted by hail and an appropriate flexing of a weathervane's muscle, a dreary evening's edges fade into darkness.
Such a colourless night. Ironically, colours are all that can be remembered, and the shapes in which they presented themselves; should one worry when all converse is with technicolour amoebas, floating past as if blurred by the very fabric of space and neon lighting? I can see myself hanging in the air, as if someone had screamed and left it to freeze, slamming windows shut and exhausting the expulsion in a vaccuum.
A procession moves me, complete with waving flags...are they waving? Shuddering. What is one to do? A reflection of my face, black as its tarmac canvas; leering!
The procession continues, now complete with sound; a dull, throbbing roar, much like the wind that howls in from bleaker patches of this indomitable quilt. Drums! The clock, it sidles towards the passing of another hour. Thump, tick, thump, tick, and so it goes. My eyes close...I see a car parked atop a rolling hill, the beginning of a long, dirt driveway. It's a Springlike sunset, with all the usual hues and graces; daffodil yellow, moist green, ethereal blue and chimerical pink. There is a house, doused with sunsets onerous ink, sprawling, weaved into the hill. A quintessential beauty - playful breezes and sleeping birds, refractive light and endless green...unmistakably vile.
Thump, tick, thump, tick. The procession has its own rhythm now. The roar of the almost distinguishable crowd thrusts and falters over the beating of drums; a march! A screech of cheap trumpets, and what a tremendous screech, as if a thousand knives were sharpened simultaneously on a railway coupling. The flags still shudder, their maudlin shading all but fading into the sky, despite the chartreuse flaring of lit torches beneath them. All of this obscured by the blurring effect, the fabric of the formidable quilt.
The house is white with a darkbrown roof, and holds a nest of wanton crows. One perches atop a sagging tree, grasping the ground with a broomstick arm, a homely tangle of branches and leaves. What picturesque serenity, twilight on the manor. A clock whose size must be measured in leagues screams seven o'clock at the dew-green hill. A cluster of rabbits are the only ones who seem to take notice of the dulcet alarm; they scatter with some speed into the holes the snakes will take in Summer. A girl with a mane of bleak-blue hair looks out a window, presently slamming it shut with the rage of Winter.
Closer yet, and closer still, the throng becomes a crashing sea. Limbs are blown to bits on rocks, even the rocks appear to bleed! What darkness was, now vomits light, a sickly, crystalline pallour; the moon has realised that it's night. And what a time to shine...throwing light onto the disturbing beguine, a thousand dancers with skeletal faces filleted by indifferent granite.
A shock of bleak-blue hair again, she darts towards the low-slung car. And, to my surprise, a figure steps lightly, light-heartedly out of the startled vehicle. My closeted eyes linger a little on the sinister mansion, and my temples crash with drums and waves. From which angle do I watch? I see the embrace of tousled hair, and an inky union of soul and flesh, but, from where? I gasp involuntarily for air, and my heart falters once, twice and over again. Light descends behind aloof hills. The nascent moon and I share a wink, how does one express a gleeful need to be sick on one’s feet?
Another day splutters to a close - another one wasted, perhaps. I only have myself to blame, of course, for there was ample opportunity to engage in productive activity.
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Much has happened, in actual fact - it has simply happened around me, devoid of influence upon or by me.
So the chasms fill with vomit and the stars recoil in shock - I laugh at the mocking bushes and hurl stones into the gagging lake. I write here for the sake of it, I have nothing to say to this empty auditorium - the echoes are unnerving
|Subject:||One Hundred Thousand Pieces|
My identity, discovered and refined over years of various excavations, has all but vanished. It’s frightening, in many ways, to have absolute proof of the transience of that thin little veneer we employ as if it were cosmetic foundation for the heinously ugly. Or better, does it seem sane to tie bedsheets together in an attempt to bridge the yawning abyss above which we hover? So I start a journal in an attempt to dig another hole in another place and perhaps benefit from whatever it is that I find in this unique form of expression.
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Crawling across my skin is the intimate knowledge that my present situation is far from satisfactory. I live each day as if its end is the single reason for its beginning. I have proudly demanded otherwise from myself. So what is it, then? Are we all doomed to spend existence chasing shimmering ideals in a torrid circle through a muddy wood? The constant revolutions have stirred my stomach and I suppose enough is enough – to be entering ones 20s with a gnawing illness at the prospect of further existence is less than promising. All the passion with which I formerly wrote and –lived- has vanished, replaced by that gnawing…gnawing.
Obsessed with words and actions and never truly present. I see companions and other existents as nothing more than the Other, and myself as a pinball bouncing aimlessly off oblivious bumpers. I’m far from sociopathy – I simply haven’t the energy to callously undermine the worth of others.