puppet vs existentialism

i watched a movie once. two women alone in the middle of no where. one who talked too much, the other none at all. At a point early in the movie the following passage is read from a book:

'all the anxiety that we bare with us. all our thwarted dreams. the incomprehensible cruelty. our fear of extinction. the painful insight into our earthly condition have slowly eroded our hope of an other-worldly salvation. The howl of our faith and doubt against the darkness and scilence is one of the most awful proofs of our abandonment and our terrified unuttered knowledge'

there is no possiblity to disagree with such a pesimistic view. such a view is the acknowledgement of the death of god. no holy hand shall guide us, or to which we can seek refuge in. there is no destiny. only the cruelty of chance. it is the throw of the dice, a throw that can be mystified as destiny. god may exist, but god is in no dice...

so now we are abandoned. alone. the world entraps with no soul to transgress. how we got to this place we do not fully comprehend. but the desire to change is with us. that feeling called hope prevails. within the darkness & scilence i discover that the criteria for all actions is my will to action. my hope. hope is neither faith nor doubt. it underpin's both. faith & doubt is their false maifestations - faith & doubt wrongly search for exterior criteria for legitimation. the final requiem for some higher purpose. hope is only grounded in the nothingness. It is pure alchemy - as lead into gold, nothing into hope. spontaneous production of life without reason.

so i hope. hope into production. i create, i create a world of hope. chance encounters into friendships. casual sex into dance. a brisk touch into love. hope is neither fantasy nor reality. psychoanalysis & materialism need not apply. endless machines replaced consecrated meaning. and thus meaning becomes the grinding of machines. meaning becomes a secular meaning. ever personal, ever shared, like the teeth of a cog. those i have lost i regret. some cog jumped from the machine. those who i have gained i stand in salute. ours is a strange love. note that our communal hope is all we need. it is a worthy condender to nothing, one that may suceed.

Ms emma dont doubt me - i'm the one who left satre's eyes crossed, and dont doubt yourself - you left my eyes crossed. ms liz one of your words is deeper with meaning than 10 of mine. Luke, dont be afriad to cry. Steven thanks for the love, & understanding. Mr justin, fear is not always the enemy. To those others - jorja, aaron, daniel, arq mark and the all the rest - ours is a world of our making, so make it...

simple frustrations

life feels as if i am on a razors edge, as if i were to crash, to fall, but i have yet to hit the ground. Dont get me wrong - most is good, things are well, but in this crazy world of high flying acts, i seem have lost my safety net. I know the routine, i know myself (enough, at least for this night) but without that net in vision i must acknowledge how precarious my life is. Of course, dear readers, this carnival has more than one attraction...

On the high wire is mr Luke & mr Justin who must now each do their own routines alone. On a tense rope they preform their tricks solo, there could be no other way. Each can only see the other, losing sight of themselves in the process of looking. Walking in oposite directions their bodies obscure their desired destinations. Each walks forward, but to the other they walk in reverse. We do not know if the audience will break out in laughter or tears. beneath them stands a clown with a miniture umbrella. there he waits for the fall. he loves them both. i cannot imagine that what the outcome will be. he just hopes that neither fall, that he need not cry.

In the house of mirrors, (the side attraction that we all love) i make my way. Lost in a sea of reflections. Each reflection is me, yet not me. There are many mirrors, many differing aspects, many differing faces. Then i realise that the reflections are of me but also the people whom i know. This is not so strange. Deleuze & Guattari once commented that our psyche & our social overlay one another. A social repression is a psychic one. A psychic extension is a social one. The 'I' is always already a 'we'. Little parts of me - familiarities & passions - are little parts of them. Yet the people i see these days are less those whom i share history with & dearly love, but rather its the new people & the 'not so causal' encounters i experience. I fully realise that all it takes for me to consolidate my old friends is to walk down the road. But perhaps i like mr bobby with his friendly talks over cigarettes, perhaps i like mr sam with his effortless fun and happiness. Time is limited. Must i loose sight of one to see the other? Perhaps i am making a fuss over nothing, in a moments time i will turn a corner to lead me out, but perhaps i may not.

In her tent the gypsy reads the palms of passers by. She sees a figure. She cant seem to make out his image, his esence, yet she knows he is not a menacing figure. Rather he is a tense figure of survival & dreams. She explains that he is a kind of totem - some animal god - some kind of deep expression. 'the lone wolf is one who has yet to devour...' and so the wolf remains hungry, & the prey remains living. She offers some advice 'the wolf is a pack animal, if it walks alone it is not seaking to hunt but is searching... some great obsession, once glimpsed, forever desired. the wolf is strong but between hunger & desire, the reality principle & the pleasure principle, it must know when to walk alone & when to walk together.' And those cryptic words is all she can offer the passer by who seeks a clue to their future.

Caught up in a range of simple frustrations, little problems with little solutions, that i have yet to solve... that we all at times hope to solve

the drinks stay sipped

Sometimes all the moments, that we savoured for the last,
Get crushed between the good & bad, from pressures we have had,
But you know I can’t conceive the day,
when feeling run too high,
To work out all the stale terrain,
emotions try to hide, when I try,

Lately I can’t seem to colour what we’ve lost,
it all seems like bad means,
When lovers turn from lust,
then I try - try to smoke alone

These shattered ties with no comprise,
fall through this fragile hell,
The drinks stay sipped ’cos we’ve lost our grip,
too exhausted to rebel, then I try

Lately I can’t seem to colour what we’ve lost,
it all seems like bad means,
When lovers turn from lust,
then I try - try to smoke alone

lately, skunk anansie

leather me up!

After trying to convince myself to have a quiet weekend, i found myself desparately in need of clubbing... and so in an instant i was out on oxford, again.

After crashing at mr lukey's house on saturday night we went off to day club in the morning to celibrate manicle's birthday. there was a fantastic mix of people, not just the normal arq-aholics who appear on the monday morning but a whole range of gloss stars, divas & freaks. fun was had. the dance-like-crazy kind of fun. the pink-love-heart brand of fun. and the amazing-people type of fun.

a new friend of mine, aaron, came along. a friendly westy type, who me and luke had met at the newtown that week. at 18 he's alot more confident and together than i was at that age. even when his insecurities show. i got to know one of ms emma's friends, the compelling conversationer mr daniel, that is, before he ran off into the daylight. then while on the dance floor i bumped into steve - a kooky boy who quickly explained he had been without sleep since friday night. trashed, dazed & confused he could think of no other place to be besides dayclub.

To top things off i won a birthday door prize, a voucher for radical leather! considering i have no leather so far i am quite pleased that i can finally get something to go with my boots :D
any suggestions as what makes a good first piece of leather?

in other news i have been off the solain for about 2 weeks (its an anti psychotic) and all is good, with nothing major resulting. because most of my symptoms were fairly mild my psychiatirst reckons that while its recommended to stay on it for 6 months as long as i watch myself i should be cool. yay!

maybe nows a good time, while on a high, to take a relax from clubbing & focus on things like study... but considering its lukey's b.day bash this coming week i think i'll have to stay in the ruckus a little longer. ah the hard life *smirk*

Ms grace, the rhythm

I should have realised that today would be unusual. As i left the house a grace jones disco classic began playing in my head. I was in one of my day-dreamy moods, staring more intently on the horizon of roofs along king street than on where i was walking. Incesant grinnning at passers by & making brief twirls as i waited for the trafic lights to usher me through.
When Im feelin lonely, Someone telephone me, Its gettin hard to pass my time.
earlier today i had conspired to go the anti VSU rally at sydney uni. I made my decision not so much because i agreed with the politics of the action, but rather cause i needed some form of political outlet. It's been a while since i've been politically active and a rally, even one of questionable politics, seemed a good oportunity for reasurance. As i dashed through the crowd, i saw a whole range of familiar faces. Old friends, ex lovers, infamous hacks of student politic days gone by & current aquatences who i had not quite expected to be there. I met each with a small deal of difficulty & delight. It is great these things bring us together, but it is these things that we find ourselves ever more difficult being part of. its nolonger our politics, its not our communities, its not our passion. In times like these i'm sure Marx would thoroughly endorse Aufheben, some creative distruction. destroy the old to make the new, dance on the ruins of the world, if here is not possible then we will make an else where.
Well, Im underestimated, Highly underated, Can there be another way?
So as the rally came to a halt at town hall i decided to do my bit for the cause. On a whim i ventured into the local book store to see what it had to offer for the young aspiring anarchist. I came across a copy of 'queer wars'. a book about the rise of the gay right. Dynasty meets politics maybe. $50. i made my appropriation in true westy tradition. i put it down the front of my pants & walked out the store.
Gettin tired of lookin, Wastin all my cookin, Ending in a dreadful row.
Ended up at the newtown hotel, with Jon, not the usual beer buddy but was most grateful for his company. we talked of boys. we came to many agreements about the needs of people in relationships, about closeness & distances. About the importance of having multiple dimensions to your life & the difficulties to keep them. i dont think i'll be doing anything too serious in dating terms for a while. i'd like to find other boys for some scandolous clubing. (not that my current friends arnt fun, i just want something to challenge me similar to emmas current snit of clubing escapades). i also realised that i really was 'single' - and all that ment: the ups, the downs & the all-over-the-place!
Can somebody tell me, Say to me, oh tell me, Why Im feelin lonely now? oh!.
I need a man, perhaps a man like you, I need a man to make my dreams, And I need a man.

kisses

Part Expert Kisser

You're a kissing pro, but it's all about quality and not quantity You've perfected your kissing technique and can knock anyone's socks off And you're adaptable, giving each partner what they crave When it comes down to it, your kisses are truly unforgettable

Part Passionate Kisser

For you, kissing is about all about following your urges If someone's hot, you'll go in for the kiss - end of story You can keep any relationship hot with your steamy kisses A total spark plug - your kisses are bound to get you in trouble

What Kind of Kisser Are You?

think of it as a verbal tattoo

I have a new name now - puppet. Its cool if people call me davey, its still my name too, just want kids to know that i think of myself as puppet at the moment. It is not a name that i will have for ever, it will have a use by date. Its just a name, not some surmise of my identity. I was not on drugs during the decission & like getting any new tattoo i had some thought to it before i went & appropriated it for myself. Changing my name - playfully or serious - acts as a catharsis. Too often we tell ourselves 'i'm a this person', or 'i cant do that, its just not me' etc a new name is the possibility (& only the possibility) to bypass this. I knew i felt different & was changing. Mainly due to my relationship with Will & the resulting break up, that was the catalyist but not the sole cause. I went numb for a little bit post breakup - a calm before the storm. & in a flood of emotion it was done.

Why puppet? Thats a little tough to explain. The name 'came' to me intuitively, not reasoned out, but it felt right. On rationalisation the name 'puppet' could be transcribed to 3 areas of my life. In my love of dancing & my experience of the scene - cute little boy with crazy body movements. In my theoretical underpining of post structuralism (performativity, subjectivity etc). In my break up with Will (the strings to my heart were pulled). Of course there are other incidental reasons. I like performing & so lends itself to performance, its a cute
name, it gives something for my friends to gossip about, its blogesque, its fun ;)

Why puppet? Even i had to admit that i too am a puppet to my emotions. And the name 'davey' while it represents much good it also has much bad. I spent too much time refusing to show people i loved them. Refusing to cry. Always keeping people a distance away. Being 'davey' meant my breaking down in hysterics with my knight josh(cause i couldnt handle sex or getting close with anyone), then not even trying to date for ages. it meant me cutting up (or burning) my wrists, groin, & face at times in my life cause i wasnt quite emotionaly stable & didnt know how to be. this is what davey became, better or worse. challenged or unchallenged. Hopefully puppet will avoid these painful pitfalls. Hopefully puppet is a name that assists me in being more open, more honest.

finally 'puppet' is not so much a play thing, but rather can be interpereted as the motif of a little boy. a motif that haunts my writings from time to time. it is of a little boy who's own spirit is circumvented by a harsh landscape that imposes itself upon the boy. The boy's own reality is under question as he deals with forces beyond his control. But it is through this questioning of who he is that he can truly determine his own existance. He can save his self.

jamais vu

alas, davey is no more...
& how could it be any different, the forces that pulled him apart were not of this world.
dashed into a 1,000 piceces. scattering across the floor of the night club. frantic hands jerk to save what was. a hopeless task, yet an inevitable endeavour. an inadequate number of pieces are rescued. with no guide to show how to stick them together!

frantic hands work to fashion a jamais vu. davey is no more. this familiar face is something else. dreams, hopes, memory & passion are the same yet utterly different. davey is no more...

he is 'puppet', noun proper. baptised with fire. 7 scars added to his collection. davey/puppet was transformed both Willingly & un-Willingly. poor little pup, brave little puppet. not quite a little boy anymore. for better or worse. let us hope wood is less brittle than bone

woman, modern

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.

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.

a picture of a dancing pig

i have now discovered how to add pics... presto.

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?

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.

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.

nostalgia 1 - forgetting and remembering

A certian friend of mine has become enamoured with nostalgia. We see the symptoms in feverish utterences, 'I remember those times when we... when i...'. It is a common saying. It is seemingly certian, but infact, it is a saying that conceals a doubt. Hanging on the edge of nostalgia one can not help but wonder about the things they have not remembered. One cannot help but notice the gaps in their memory, absences that become painfully obvious when you must reply to your friend - 'really? i have completely forgoten'.

the love for nostalgia infects. it is a true epidemic - it only worsens with time, and there is no return for those infected to a time prior to nostalgia. It seems that once we know that all actions liqify into memory we cannot take action with inocence. That is: we act now with the knowledge of the present's fate. The present is to loose all its depth & colapse into the surface of memory.

We share our past with others only for them to return the favour. We could call it a Verbally Transmited Disease. My memories shall compel the uncovering of yours, even if you choose not to verbaly express them. This sweetly-sickly condition speads to yet another. And so the great epidemic of a transient past continues to walk into our present.

-

And what of that doubt? the blessed forgetting. the imposibility of 'living' without having a trace of that 'living moment'? I am tempted to believe that the anxiety comes not simply from the fact that we have forgoten. If we were to simply forget, then why the anxiety?

I look into an old photo album & am stumped to place myself where this photo proposes i was. My memory fails. I am frustrated, but why should i become anxious of this fact? It is an unmemorable moment, inconcequential part of my life i happened to record in a photo. But now it is the basis for anxiety. more is at work here than we percieve. Perhaps is the suggestion enclosed within this moment, the suggestion that we are not who we remember ourselves to be.

I am tempted to draw a link between this and Nirvana. It literally means extinction. A blissful forgetting without ignorance. A state of being without attachment or compassion. Perhaps the anxiety is the inevitable outcome of forces within ourselves to both exist and to cease existence. Where else would our anxiety appear for such an event other than in our inability to remember ourselves? At place that questions our existance. Of course this is a romantic concept. In truth the answer is likely to be much more dull, and this truth will be a chalky pill to swallow as it will remind us that our lives are no epic play of the gods.

-

A friend of mine departed recently for a year to japan. Before she left i found the act of nostalgia, of remembering our joint past, a little difficult. There was an internal refusal to acknowledge what was past, a defence mechanism enforcing a blockage. It denyed myself a sense of loss by denying the very fact that something is being lost. Instead i was left meloncholic, sad for no reason, or rather a rationalised sadness. What broke that sense of meloncholy, this forgetting - what returned me into the warm hands of nostalgia was a care package.

The package was not meant for my friend in Japan, it was for another friend who had left a while ago for a land full of faux nostalgia... America. I asked myself a question 'what would i put in such a package?' I did not recieve an answer to that question. Something else happened. It came on as if i had pulled down an album from a shelf, only to have photo's fall into a mess without order or priority. Smiles and sadness, i began to remember. thoughts floating both to the continent of america and the island of japan. i missed them, both of them.

I am glad to chose a few smuged memories over a hevenly & blissful engagement. I did not send anything in that care passage, but i imagine that recieving it would be like finding an old photo. Tattered with memories, a brief convulsion and they too spread the bable of memories further through the world.

nothing to do

now with autumn semester over i find myself relaxing - i am sleeping in, spending days at home... but these actions are so incongruent with my life up till now that i am trying to find things for me to do. I am so used to being busy.

one of those things is deciding to thematicise (?!?) our lounge room - we (me & nat) are going to convert the lounge room into an opium den. Pillows placed all over, coloured lights & ornamentation. Basically to achieve a warm feeling, somewhere to really relax, with a touch of sleaze and intoxication.

the other distraction has been considering what my next zine will be about. Im quite happy with the vouging for revolutionaries (V4R) series. I will not be making a QPR-zine to usher in my new rose tattoos. I am also putting on hold the idea of doing a V4R issue where i deconstruct myself. Its a bit difficult, if i intend to do it the way i envissioned it. At present i have thought of several different possibilities:

1. one about psychology with nat. Covering stuff about critical psych, concepts in psychoanalysis and schizoanalysis, gender, theory and practice.

2. something on dancing & clubing culture, (and possibly music). reviews & reflections. with a bonus CD? - i always love the extras, though i doubt most people would appreciate my taste if i did compose a laser disk of audio clips.

3. possibly going back to something more obviously political - oddly, what interests me the most is environmentalism, freedom of movement in local settings, the destruction of public life and policing of pleasure zones. Basically it would (respectively) be a zine about the benifit of riding bikes, the need 4 better public transport, a call for new forms of political organsing and a note on the evils of policing night clubs.

4. doing a zine on film. part analysis, part reviews, part endorsement for a popular underground for film. basically i'd really love an opportunity to have free range on my cinematic interperetation. & considering the amount of arguements ive had with my boyf. and other friends over film it will no doubt generate much chat.

suggestions, anyone?

book collections

i think i read too much, i dont think people ever truly understand how much i read because i tend to read in depth & not in breath. I once remember gilbert (an old nerd/literati friend of mine) commenting that people only ever read the first chapter of epistemology of the closet, its axiomatic - i still felt compelled to read the entire book. It is compulsion in the face of reason - in the face of need, of logic, and of practicality. The desire to read follows me everywhere.

While walking through freedom furniture it is this need that led me to notice the books acting as pure ornamentation on the shelves of the furnitures. Their titles are as follows:
Unbridled power, the measure of man, Japan:the toothless tiger & blaze. These books stood in their hard cover glory among the book shelves and the bedside cabinent's within the display room. In the study section stood an array of books covered with wraping - the faber book of comic verse, the x-files confidiental, windows manual, & the oxford history of african american art.

It is interesting to see what remains concealed and what remains in view. Books that bestow the reader the concepts of power and strength are sub-liminally placed in the areas of personhood - the bedroom - and places that denote wealth - the display case (aka book shelf). On the other hand, what is covered is books of contraversy, of boredom and books of triviality. What is displayed is the manifest of the great man [sic]. What is denied is chance and humanity.

again i wonder if i am reading too much?

we r family

i have finally finished my autumn semester of uni, it did not end as well as i had expected, but i think i am over it, uni has become a matter of going through the motions - i expect to go fairly average this semester.

during this semester i have been indulging myself in french philosophy (...yes, again) but instead of the more typical post modern stuff that i read, i have had to read about phenomenology and existentialism, topics i needed to broach for my research project. While flipping through the pages of Satre & Merleu-Ponty i was quite amazed at how diverse the schools of thought in france are, and how public the debate can be.

Satre talks about how this sense of belonging to particular ideologies is known by the people of france as 'our families of the mind'. Each family is a school of thought.

I have a strange sense of nostalgia for this. Nostalgia because i enjoy this little reminder as i read satre's book. Strange because it is not my memory, i have not lived it. I would love for public debate to occur on the streets, random conversations, intellecual mags and pulp books. While this stuff happens at the moment, in ways that are more supperior at times, it is the intensity that is just as important to take into account.

Thus this is nostalgia becuase it maintains a sense of loss - time has separated then from now. Today people to dont talk politics so readily, there are no families of the mind. left and right circulate, but with on passion - we are the step children of these families, we struggle in negotiating how we should belong to these families, to these thoughts, and not all encounters between child and adult is one of unconditional love in this family.

post inquisition chill

big dance party weekend is over... three days and i am drained... think its time for a break, back to the pubs and lounge rooms of unsuspecting friends i think.

saturday 8pm - dinner at emmas, a quick feed to ease our stomachs for the night ahead. Each of us breaking off throughout the night in order to prepare our outfits. Luke was harnessed up, Jorja was tuled up, Rachel was tied up, Will was kilted up, and Emmas bo peep had run away with the sheep, so she settled on a gothed out nurse instead.

My out fit was a rehash of my sleaze apron (take a front and back polygon of material, add buckles, belts & bits of aluminium can and you got it). Together with my kick arse boots it looked good.

saturday 10:30pm - waiting for the girls to arrive, we get a first hand view of the costumes as they enter. Apparently most people chose to go with the theme of 13, proudly displaying their goose bumps for all to see.

sat-ur-sun maybe? - we partied away. Sveta played at the start in the open area. Mike Kelly also on incredibly early in the place with the pillars. Scoping the place out, Not too wide, but many twists and turns. As the night progressed i found my dancing feet. Shaking and rolling, spinning and twirling. the music tells me to drop to the floor and wait till the count of 4... 1, only the base line, 2, felling the presure rise, 3, my ass begins to find a mind of its own, 4, im gone now into the zone.

Sex with Will in the toilets - it seems that few people had realised the luxuries that the top level had to offer - quiet bar, space to dance, and a not so busy toilet.

Hey isnt that that guy from manicle, the one when we were all really trashed off our nut? hes shaking his finger at me with a smile on his face... oh yeah! thats right, guess so, wish i could remember his name.

people, faces, names, not as seamless as id like it to be... theres Will's friends, my friends, new encounters, people to whom you will only ever get that mutual glance, huddling under the huge heaters outside while getting a breath of fresh air.

sunday morning 8am, and we head back to wills palce for a shit shower and a shave. Vodka shots latter and were off again. Ive changed - for better or worse - into something more relaxed. pheonix is dark and dirty, but its too quiet to be of use. THe $10 cover must have scared people away. We decide that manicle will be a alternative. And away we go. Another half and im back up, allittle dance, a little beer and a little love - wills stayed home, but at theres other cute boys to dance with.

sunday again - sleep, work, sleep

monday 7am - emma calls appologetic - she forgot about me, 'meet me at manicle'. Will decides to go to work, draging my sorry ass out of bed - a line or too and manicle in the best bet. The pace is slower, my vision is clearer, and there is new people to meet and old ones to converse with. what fun!

monday 11am? off to new boy davids place, hes fucked, we crash, all is fun still as we relax. I get sick - sleep - work - sleep... its over. finito, zilch. thats it. gone. ...at least till next week ;)

play up! boot up!

Inquisition is 2 days away! sucess with my shift at Kens being swaped (unfortunately to sunday 10pm but thats an improvement correct). The alcohol, fairy dust and alphabetical apropriations have been made. back has been shaved. the costume is currently under construction, A reworking of my sleaze ball costume - and - as a special gift to myself boots - black leather, cutting a inch from the knees, i am in love with them.

They are my first boots, you never forget your first boots. The heel is raised, my posture shifts in them. I stand differently. 'this must be another me!' - am i biker david? goth david? skinhead? or simply a leather comrade. I am enticed to play in the boots. I want to let the boots make me. Its a masochism without a master. The boots are neither a living subject, nor dead object. Maybe they are one of the desiring machines i have heard so much about. I have been dancing in my bedroom in them, getting their feel, knowing their style. Lifting, spinning, step 1, 2, 3 - its a sweet thing, this love, this strange love...