there are no pieces left to pick up

luke sent me a text message today. A back handed thanks. Rightly deserved i suppose - i mailed him back his copy of No Logo with some inked scrible left in the front cover. The web address to the pdf for a statutory declaration, to be exact. The conversation deteriorated into one of blame & hurt. I lamented on it for a bit. I had changed from being his 'rock' to being his 'bad friend'.

After the unfounded accusations & childish blog posts I'd had enough. 'Like talking to a brick wall' commented one friend 'he lives in his own little fantasy world half the time, the other half of the time hes pushing his fantasies onto everyone else'

I brushed the events aside. A hour later i found myself falling apart. I got into a bad mood. Something came over me & feelings surfaced... unexpected feelings about something else... something different.

I remembered an incident with Mrs A. An ex-house mate. It occured after she had moved out. The mothership had landed in Newtown cemetary to celebrate some event. I cant quite remember what it was... but i guess thats not important. What was important was what she said. I remember it quite clearly: 'we're not friends'. So simply said. Such a flat matter-of-fact voice. So unlike her usual poetic banter. Bam! Full Stop.

My face flushed red. i was embarassed infront of my friends. I was a fool smiling. I had apparently assumed too much. The trust that comes with sharing a home disappeared so quickly in a puff of smoke in her eyes. The small courtesies that are exchanged in share housing no longer applied. The little pieces of kindness that i offered & she accepted were erased, or atleast forgotten for the moment.

I imagine it was much like hitting a wall at high speed. An immediate stop. The force of your previous momentum crushes your body. The soft tissue colapses were hard metal & stone do not.

No appologies. No recognition. Friends offered condolances to my perished body & reminded me that walls are never to blame.

I let it go. I let it slide. I could find no pieces left to pick up. No cogs. No valves. No motor. None. There was nothing left to ride.

Once again i've hit the same wall. Once again there are no pieces left to pick up.

how do you find release from the past?

here is an extract from the ministry of pain:

"How do you find relase from the past? I kept wondering [...]

The past is our "instalation," amateur stuff but with artistic pretensions. With a touch-up here and a touch-up there, here a touch, there a touch, everywhere a touch touch-touch. (Retouching is our favourite artistic device.) Each of us is a curator in his own museum. [...]

Keep your life dust free. Make occasional changes. Get rid of a thing or two. Uncover A; cover up B. Remove all spots. Keep your mouth shut. Think of your tounge as a weapon. Think one thing and say another. Use ortound expressions to obfuscate your intentions. Hide what you believe. Believe what you hide."

-Dubravka Ugresic

Interesting, but do i agree? Is this the only release from the past? & to readers at home do you agree?

hey... slut

I've been having sex. Quite a bit of sex. Being the little wolf cub that i am i seem to be able to sniff out mischief where ever i go.

'gez, were ever we go you always seem to pick up' notes gary, with a little anoyance. My early departures have left him adrift on more than one occassion.

'a boy has needs' rationalises justin as he sips his coffee - a substitute for his breakfast. I splutter my own coffee '...well i must be a very needy person then'

'how goes the scandolously steamy & supurbly sensual sexcapades?' Questions steve with his well crafted words & witful demeanor.

'for the story' reads the comment scribbled on a card. It is followed by a phone number. the card arrived into my hand after a up close & personal dance with a leather boy. It may have well said 'lets have a fuck' given the way we were getting onto each other.

Peter aptly sumarises the situation with his usual 'yer slut'. the comment's are usually followed by fucking. I think 'sluts' turn him on.

I don't mind the sex. Not at all. But i'm begining to mind the label. The baggage that comes with being a overly friendly individual. Am i really a slut? Is it something to reject? Or should i embrace it?

Some inner christian sentiments lament. 'Bad girls finish last'. Such a silly thing to think... its the bad girls that get what the want... of course... how do i know that this is truly what i want?

on moving house, part 2

i am now well settled into my new place. things are unpacked. my life is in order. i've even had time to start bloging again. Yay!

three
Moving out is a haze. A Intense & jumbled moment. A blur. The image of speed itself. Out of focus & almost out of frame of reference. Perhaps thats why it lends itself to a pessimistic perspective - at such speeds one can't help but get motion sickness. In contrast to this moment is unpacking. Slow, elongated, nothing but endless contemplation. Too many boxes & not enough time. Too much thought. Made haste assemblages of furniture & ornaments.

The dismantled home must be put back together. We have been provided endless fragments to this puzzle but little clues as to how it should all fit together. Like a jigsaw we can separate different pieces that should go together, but beyond that point, placing the pieces on the board remains a elusive task. 'this one with the red pieces... and this one with the greens' the jig saw player mutters to himself. 'this box is kitchen stuff.., and these bedroom items' the unpacker mimics.

The difference is that unlike a person who sit at the jigsaw puzzle contently knowing that she will end up making that picture on the box, the unpacker does not know what the final image will look like. They may have a mental picture of where a particular piece fitted before, in the old place, but that does not help to identify where the piece should fit now.

This is the catch. I'm in a new place. A new house. Some how i need to assemble my things to make this a home. A place that feels warm - a place that is me. There are no instructions to follow. No neatly numbered images like you’d find inside an ikea box. And unlike with a jigsaw, i dont think a hammer will be able to help me. At least not in the same way it does to an unyielding jigsaw puzzle piece.

part four
Suggestions, endless suggestions. Combinations, endless combinations. 'perhaps not there, how about over here'. Things begin to come together not bit by bit. Not chunk by chunk, but rather through perpetual permutations & combinations. My room for instance can only be seen as a whole - an aggregate - an ensemble. The different components work with each other & against each other in order to figure themselves out.

'The bed in this corner means... the lamp in that corner which places my bookshelf on this wall and... no it just doesn’t work! Lets start with the bookshelf first'

Friends offer suggestions. Thank god for good friends :) They give little insights & quiz little biases. 'So what are you saving the space in front of the fire place for? You do know santa doesn’t exist... right?!' We laugh & start over again. I reflect. I move from an ill as ease to a joyful yay! For some reason this picture frame doesn’t look out of place any more & when i peak out from beneath my sheets & can see the faces of loved ones clearly. What a nice way to wake up. As things fit together existential unease depreciates.

Maybe i belong here now. Maybe this is a new chapter in my life. Perhaps as i put the pieces together in my room I also put together my thoughts about how i present myself.

I love to read - i love to sort the multiple books of politics & philosophy on myself. Foucault & other politico stuff up top. Older half read texts to the bottom. The mirror somewhere where i can watch myself dancing - oh how i love to dance. & of course i have a space to lay of the floor - to dissociate - & to glance off the at the world outside my window.

I assemble my room. I make a home with friends. Much loved friends. I make myself... once again.