ah, uni is about to start back up this week. I have discovered that i am enrolled in a subject called professional issues in psychological practice. Oh what fun - not. tonight is the last night of sunday/monday fun i'll have b4 semester starts. next week i'll have to go out with a guilty concious.
justin, of robot hell fame has moved in. many boxes were carried. & people say i'm not butch!
thanx to Will, i've discovered podcasts. you can subscribe via itunes music store. try 'superfag radio' for gay look at comics; the gossipy-ness of 'unnatrual acts of opera' for opera; or for some american pseudo politics 'free talk live' is good for a listen (or subscribe for regular listening).
things with me and will are bumpy. not quite good, not quite bad. neither of us has cooled scince the break up. i'm not really sure what the best thing to do is. only communicate in letters? under go 2 weeks of intensive counselling? ask a magic 8 ball? maybe i'll give him a call.
finally. in 10 pages time i will have finished reading museum of unconditional surrender. it has refuled my interest in the motif of the modern woman. who is todays modern woman - with their humor & sophisitcation? The book has spurned the idea for a movie that is now playing in my head. It is how to marry a millionaire meets the underground. Its about 3 women in a war torn town in bosnia who try to 'make it' in a crazy world. Of course their own desires eventually coincide with the larger desire of stopping the war in their village. They achieve this by making each side think they have gained control of the village. Both sides 'win', they are left alone. It will probably end with some form of insurrgence, the towns folk take control. The humor will develop from the lives of the women. They continue on with life as if they wern't in a war - e.g. running past the local sniper who has been adequitely bribed to miss. the towns folk faking their own deaths in order to get money off forigen journalists who are only after the money shot. all done by a modern woman. hair pulled up, hem above the kneees, mind & heart ever working towards success, which never turns out quite as they had expected.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
another night of postwork bedroom drinks
if my life were a story i cannot help imagine it would be a sad one. My mother is no more. My father never was. my brother is on a thread. & i hopelessly try to care for my younger sister & brothers in the hours we share. At times i strugle to feel i exist. I know that this is wrong. I exist. But recognition of my existance lags. I assume that it is for this reason that I am somewhat socialy inept. i never register my own impact in the social space (how could i when my existence is so tenuous) as luke or emma so aptly do. anyways, this story begins a new chapter.
my boy of 7 months is gone. it has been a long seven months. a beautiful 7. he was so dear to me & i have been avoiding morning for quite a while. I listen to music when i am alone so as to distract & yet i choose the sad songs to hear. Tonight at work (good old Ken's) i once again had to explain the tatters of my love life. Banal. Scripted by now. Not me thinking. Just saying. When i was with my boy i cried. It has been so long since i cried. So long since i sat in some closet, weaping at my own nonexistance. But now im back in survival mode. no tears, no time to weap. Just forget, ignore, aviod.
Freud's later theories talk of the constant return of the repressed. There is a delicate tension in the psyche. The repressed always returns. Displaced or condensed. Replaced with something else or reduced to something more manageable. (funily enough this mirror freuds return to his own earlier theories). But manageable is a very tenuous thing. Now what was manageable & what wasnt is becoming blured. Im in agony - but i feel no pain. It was the right thing to do. But since when did the right thing to do require so much pain?
I've obviously grown through time. I am no longer afraid of relationships. But i still think i ran from my boy. I could have loved him. I should of. But i held back. (Don't i always do this?) Chance played its card. My defence returns to repress. Maybe i need to believe in 'love' before i can experience it. I need to truly believe that it is meant for me, for at least once in my life. & a love of the reciporical sort. Maybe this is why i admire people who bare themselves so completely. They are my apparition. a mirage in a desert. & till then i'll walk about with my thirst.
my boy of 7 months is gone. it has been a long seven months. a beautiful 7. he was so dear to me & i have been avoiding morning for quite a while. I listen to music when i am alone so as to distract & yet i choose the sad songs to hear. Tonight at work (good old Ken's) i once again had to explain the tatters of my love life. Banal. Scripted by now. Not me thinking. Just saying. When i was with my boy i cried. It has been so long since i cried. So long since i sat in some closet, weaping at my own nonexistance. But now im back in survival mode. no tears, no time to weap. Just forget, ignore, aviod.
Freud's later theories talk of the constant return of the repressed. There is a delicate tension in the psyche. The repressed always returns. Displaced or condensed. Replaced with something else or reduced to something more manageable. (funily enough this mirror freuds return to his own earlier theories). But manageable is a very tenuous thing. Now what was manageable & what wasnt is becoming blured. Im in agony - but i feel no pain. It was the right thing to do. But since when did the right thing to do require so much pain?
I've obviously grown through time. I am no longer afraid of relationships. But i still think i ran from my boy. I could have loved him. I should of. But i held back. (Don't i always do this?) Chance played its card. My defence returns to repress. Maybe i need to believe in 'love' before i can experience it. I need to truly believe that it is meant for me, for at least once in my life. & a love of the reciporical sort. Maybe this is why i admire people who bare themselves so completely. They are my apparition. a mirage in a desert. & till then i'll walk about with my thirst.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
the time is 1:15am...
during a period of drug induced honesty i have decided that my next zine will be part of the QPR (queen psychotic rage (its from a skunk anansie lyric)) series & not V4R (vouging 4 revolutionaries (a zine of my more political stuff)). It will still be called 'dance pig' - only focusing on the emotional side of dancing rather than the philosophical/politico side (yes there is a philosophical side 2 dance). Why the change? my emotions are in oversurge - there are people in my life who have lost their familiarity, friends i dont see enough of, people who have entered unexpectedly & others who exited in much the same way.
the people i met & befriend mean the most to me (and i feel that all those who i befriend share this ethic). I understand that while our desires to connect with others may preside, as strong as they may be they still fall under the sway of chance & circumstance in order to come to fruition. This is a little inner truth for me. A truth i have learnt in night clubs. I am a cluber - i love the dim lights & loud music. I love to dance. Dance encapsulates this play of connection. To say i'm a 'dance pig' is to state an allegory, the 'dance' pig is the 'connection' pig. I only step to the rhythm of our co-joined lives. In dim lights, in half heard words we often reveal our otherwise censored selves. Dance is an act of communication. Dancing includes the moments when i sit rest.
postscript
the body's movement transforms into dancing just as thread transforms into fabric. at some point fate deters us into a new understanding. be it selfish, thoughtful, spiteful, distant or loving - we now have something between us that was not there before. And it is always a 'something' that is worth experiencing. Near the edges the fabric remains freyed. it is an unfinised mass which can unravel just as easily as it can be reinforced. Remember that even a tango of love can end in divorce from the moving walls of a labrynth of bodies. So have you kept hold of the thread so that you may find your way?
the people i met & befriend mean the most to me (and i feel that all those who i befriend share this ethic). I understand that while our desires to connect with others may preside, as strong as they may be they still fall under the sway of chance & circumstance in order to come to fruition. This is a little inner truth for me. A truth i have learnt in night clubs. I am a cluber - i love the dim lights & loud music. I love to dance. Dance encapsulates this play of connection. To say i'm a 'dance pig' is to state an allegory, the 'dance' pig is the 'connection' pig. I only step to the rhythm of our co-joined lives. In dim lights, in half heard words we often reveal our otherwise censored selves. Dance is an act of communication. Dancing includes the moments when i sit rest.
postscript
the body's movement transforms into dancing just as thread transforms into fabric. at some point fate deters us into a new understanding. be it selfish, thoughtful, spiteful, distant or loving - we now have something between us that was not there before. And it is always a 'something' that is worth experiencing. Near the edges the fabric remains freyed. it is an unfinised mass which can unravel just as easily as it can be reinforced. Remember that even a tango of love can end in divorce from the moving walls of a labrynth of bodies. So have you kept hold of the thread so that you may find your way?
Saturday, July 09, 2005
little treasures
i pulled on a pair of jeans the other day. i had not worn them in ages. i found five dollars in the pocket. i found this small treasure on the same night that i lost another. my boy is free, i am alone. i have to smile for him even as i frown. my mind plays tricks. i imagine that i had lost that five dollars in those pants on the night that i met my boy. i imagine that my boy is some magic five dollar genie - and i have now used up all my wishes. The genie is gone. All i am left with is the original five dollars. Is it a consolation prize or a condolence note? It buys me a beer, and i drink it slowly.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
quick fix
it is 2am. i have just come home from vortex. It is a club frequented by goths & other creatures. my flatmates boyfriend, leigh, celebrated his b.day tonight. It was 3 levels of fun, some cute boys, & one lingering kiss. But make no mistake, while it was good (a quck fix to my clubing needs) the venue did not live up 2 da musical & performative potential offered by the idea of a goth club... i must admit though, the organic reappropriation of goggles 4 boys rocked.
"Verica asked me for a cigarette to disinfect her throat. Another of her 'pearls' of medicine. Our Verica has a talent for everything, what would we do without her. Sometimes we get fed up with her 'knowledge' - museum of unconditional surrender.
I feel it wise to say that in my previous post (yes, it is a post that has its grammatical downfalls but hey, im only human) i drew heavily from dubravka ugresic (pronounced as oo-greh's-ich). She haunts me in her style, in her areas of topic & in her scencerity. After so much reading in phlosophy (marx, deluze, foucault, aristotle (yes, i have read aristotle, & yes he is boring), freud, james, simmel etc) i am so gratefull to finally read someone who spends a great deal (if not all) of her time writing talking about people. She talks of those arkward moments, of those sentimental encounters, of those events never to be replicated. She quotes authors she admires & speaks of those people in our lives who we never know, but still construct in our minds as 'people'; as someone who meant something. Ms Ugresic speaks in a way that i understand, with names of friends that remind me of my 'other' culture (eg. slavica, branko, mirjana, boža, & verica). With her I feel the croatian in me that has become so distant. she is y own little 'pearl'.
my next zine will be dance pig - a zine on culture, dance, community & transgression... mainly dance though.
"Verica asked me for a cigarette to disinfect her throat. Another of her 'pearls' of medicine. Our Verica has a talent for everything, what would we do without her. Sometimes we get fed up with her 'knowledge' - museum of unconditional surrender.
I feel it wise to say that in my previous post (yes, it is a post that has its grammatical downfalls but hey, im only human) i drew heavily from dubravka ugresic (pronounced as oo-greh's-ich). She haunts me in her style, in her areas of topic & in her scencerity. After so much reading in phlosophy (marx, deluze, foucault, aristotle (yes, i have read aristotle, & yes he is boring), freud, james, simmel etc) i am so gratefull to finally read someone who spends a great deal (if not all) of her time writing talking about people. She talks of those arkward moments, of those sentimental encounters, of those events never to be replicated. She quotes authors she admires & speaks of those people in our lives who we never know, but still construct in our minds as 'people'; as someone who meant something. Ms Ugresic speaks in a way that i understand, with names of friends that remind me of my 'other' culture (eg. slavica, branko, mirjana, boža, & verica). With her I feel the croatian in me that has become so distant. she is y own little 'pearl'.
my next zine will be dance pig - a zine on culture, dance, community & transgression... mainly dance though.
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