There’s been stops in towns, towns called Tamworth and Cowra and Dubbo, and last night we stayed in a town called Lismore and there’s never much to see, there was a town we passed called Moonri and there was a small shed with a sign on it, “Moonri Museum” which made me laugh. There’s a lot you can poke at but you shouldn’t, and the people aren’t any different to those back in Melbourne. Chris calls them purer, simpler folk (those exact words) but I don’t know. I think they’re just the same
so we’ve been stopping at op shops and little galleries to see what each place is about. It’s nice, like collecting pieces of a patchwork of the eastern side of this country
In one of the Vinnies shops we looked in, the radio was tuned into a local broadcast where some old geezer said “we can never spend too much on defence” and elaborated, “there’s so much to protect in our great country” and esteemed Abbott for his good job. I think we need to protect Australians from Australians, and even though I wouldn’t call myself patriotic or nationalistic, i was very annoyed to hear someone talking about Australians like that
i actually enjoyed the trip for that part,
The part where i realise i actually have no idea what this country is about but i would like to know more
Once I pass’d through a populous city imprinting my brain for future
use with its shows, architecture, customs, traditions,
Yet now of all that city I remember only a woman I casually met
there who detain’d me for love of me,
Day by day and night by night we were together—all else has long
been forgotten by me,
I remember I say only that woman who passionately clung to me,
Again we wander, we love, we separate again,
Again she holds me by the hand, I must not go,
I see her close beside me with silent lips sad and tremulous.
We listened to the audio of The Castle while driving up the Hume Fwy. I’m very close to being able to recite it by heart. Chris needs to nap every so few hours because of his back pain post surgery and there’s only so much driving one can take. We’ve been gone for ten hours. I don’t yearn to be at home, back in Melbourne. I read a book about “the habits of effective people” and I don’t consider it to be a load of wank, unlike most self help books. The fwy scenery has these very elegant, tidy rolling hills, and the grass looks so soft from the distance - you can imagine sheep just bouncing, like a spring loaded mattress.
"I watched a documentary on 9/11 and the falling man, that photograph that gets passed around. The Catholic community was very much in denial that any of their family members had been related and consequently damned by taking their own lives."
The dinosaur dream, recurring every so few months. I had dinner at Yellow Bird, with the housemate with her disheartened demeanour, and the other with hearty spirit. Me distant, disinterested and disengaged, tired from work. Fell asleep on ride home. Freckled face.
Standing on the tightrope and watching the dinosaur, lock in eye contact, he approaches. Flight or fight. You will lose the fight. He will consume you, he has over and over and over again. But if you choose to jump, you chose the death. You chose how things will end for you and he won’t win. What is the price of agency. Eternal damnation. Rather be an agent than a victim.
How important is research in writing? Should I watch the Falling Man documentary to understand how it felt, does that meant his piece is dated. If I contextualise in any sense, it dates it. Contemporary politics dates it but it makes it more available
In this piece, I want to encourage how important fear is in making a decision, one that will impact your entire whole life.
Agency - choose if you want to be damned
"Some of the relatives of the victims, some Russian man, were in disbelief. They did not identify with the Fallen Man. They refused to acknowledge the death. Catholics did not want to acknowledge the possibility of their relative being condemned. But suicide might have seen and been warranted under the circumstances," Cassie said.
I don’t want to write about a stream of consciousness it isn’t me at all. My thoughts don’t run that way, they have periods and they are concise unlike my verbal speech. I am clear in my mind but not aloud,
I guess that’s why some people are better writers than others.
I figured it out.
Train my brain, train my heart.
Last minute stress mastery - reaction to impending danger. You don’t want to accept the fate you are being delivered to.
The tightrope. Darkness below. Dinosaur approaches. Jump now. Brain calmly analyses the situation. Jump or be devour. He has eaten you before. The jumping into the abyss is an acceptance what will follow,
Agency. The dinosaur maybe symbolised. something.”letting things happen” accepting the darkness is better. The monster devouring you - the abyss idea. Accept the abyss. You do not have control. Don’t need it.
Is religion about accepting the fate destined. Is that what it means. You have free will, but it’s predestined anyway.
Important I write about this as something other than feelings. I like listening to electronic music because it is not restrictive. WRITE WHAT YOU WANT TO FEEL / READ / UNDERSTAND. and there will be people on the same wavelength as you.
I had a job interview today for a “real” job. Working for a barrister, as close to my dream job as I can reasonably expect at this stage of my life. I suppose it went well, as well as it could reasonably have gone. His office is full of books and papers, the bookshelves were lines with golden spines, and there were three computers on, what was he working on, and I hope I was dazzling with my technical knowledge. I hope I seemed kind and patient, willing to learn. I hope I hope I hope.
I don’t want to forget today, because I suspect today is one of those days which unleashes change, a new dawn. And I have been holding out for a new dawn for months now. Here’s to the future that I am chasing, here’s to the girl that I am dreaming of, I am becoming the girl of my dreams.
"I need my girl" is playing through my headphones. There are crowds of people jaywalking across the street. I’m looking west at the Melbourne Central crossover bridge, and I am waiting at the lights, waiting for a friend. She is late. I can hear this music but it’s not coming from my headphones, it’s coming from a fellow nearby. His music is too loud. I am slightly irritated because I don’t appreciate him not realising how taking over a public space, but I like this song and I like trying to make out the lyrics between the streams of people that pass by. There’s this song and it says to me, I want the evening to stay forever, I want the song to keep playing forever. I want an eternal moment. Just as I am thinking this, my friend has tapped me on the arm and says hello, thanks for coming, sorry I’m late.
I made a mistake in my life today
Everything I love gets lost in the drawers
I want to start over, I want to be winning
Way out of sync from the beginning
Writing about politics, thought pieces about Pussy Riot and Tony Abbot (Tiny Abbott) — I do not know enough. I need to talk to more people. I don’t want to talk to more people.
Story about Chelsea Frogmore
CHELSEA! FROGMORE! Headmistress screams. Drug dealer by accident.
The opening chords to Belong by The Pains of Being Pure At Heart.
Chris and I, riding to Amy’s house by bike using the service lanes. Warm weather. He wasn’t wearing a sweater. I was pushing my mind to seek out stories. I want to dispel the fear that I will never be able to write anything again because I don’t have any stories. The Beatle’s drawl in Happiness Is A Warm Gun went through my head. I told myself to write this down so at lest I have a paragraph written, if nothing else. There was a little magic in the night, bike-riding with that song, but I cannot yet capture it in words.
Can I capture my inability to capture it, adequately? Is that something I have skill enough to do?
By the end of the bike ride, I had a plot laid out for a book.
I could hear the opening scene in my head—Chelsea talking to friends on the front porch steps, hearing her name screamed out by the headmistress, the following interrogation with a police offer in the headmistress’ office about Chelsea’ alleged drug-dealing. Chelsea denies everything. She was a party. She did sell a girl ice. She has a relationship with her drug-dealer—one that is not platonic but not romantic. Chelsea has a boyfriend.
It reminded me of Looking For Alibrandi.
As much as I don’t want to write a book like that, I do like that book heaps, still, now in my young adult life.
I don’t think I will ever be in danger of having ideas. but I will be in danger of never producing such an artefact because I am afraid (is this the right word for the feeling?) of the work that is needed to go into writing such a book. That is only up to me.
Windsor Castle has a weird style. The DJ is playing disco after midnight and Sam starts talking about its contemporary validity after I’ve raised an eyebrow. I think disco reached its expiration date decades ago. I say nothing because I don’t know anything about disco. Except the Bee Gees, I think to myself.
I’m at the table and I’m talking to S. on this night. I’m drunk. I’m drinking gins and tonics and I pluralise the contents of that drinks in conversation and I get some laughs. I’m missing out on gems of people. I keep thinking this, I’m self destructive. I destroy chances to talk to people. I’m going to miss out. Miss out on good people. Miss out on good things. I’m not creating a tally of people I know. I don’t need more friends. But I want them. More conversations. I’m restless. Time is fleeting. Cliches sayings are running through my mind and in my drunken stupor, I say some of them aloud and then try to mix them into the conversation we’re having about music. I don’t think the table notices.
H. goes out of his way to tell me Hello and Goodnight. The statements amount to more than he has ever said to me, when we have hung out with the same gang previously. I think to myself. I think, This Is Bullshit and ignore him. My heart is pounding because of the alcohol. At the table, my boyfriend has a long conversation with a tipsy M. who is the cutest person. Keeps saying No More Whiskey but won’t let the bar staff take her glass off her. Cute, very cute.
S. is very into music. We compare our music collections on our phones. Neither respective phone reflects our listening habits, we claim. He is not bashful in his proclamation of love for Linkin Park, which I secretly like.
On an unrelated note, he tries to convince me cats aren’t the Satan’s spawn, but I can’t be persuaded on the matter.
I resigned myself long ago to being the quiet and silent observer in company. I don’t want to be quiet anymore. I want to have more conversations, and I want to be loud, interested and commanding attention. No more wallflower gal.