THE POSTGRADUATE INVENTION // i sleep and i listen to records, but i always wake early. i don’t like sleeping in, it’s a waste of time, i’d rather go to bed early, there are raspberry scented candles on my bookshelf, my bookshelf is laid horizontally, my feet line up with my favourite books when i lie down on my back. my understanding of the cause of invention is unknown and i exist in a cycle. get up, go to work, come home, go to sleep. read a book or two in between, sleep with a boy, sleep alone. scared of people breaking into the house.
my books are my constant companions, marsilius of padua and his contemporaries, william ockham and john of paris, occupy my mental space more than my family and friends. the thesis never leaves my thoughts. those companions will have left by by monday, the date i submit this monstrous piece of work that i now fall more and more in love with.
i used to dream of moving overseas, perhaps not to paris, but to a new identity to reinvent my world. to start another world of cycles. i wanted to say goodbye to everyone because then i could say goodbye to the old version of myself. i don’t know whether i can say goodbye to myself anymore, i’m not sure that i stil want to. now i dream of a house in the countryside and another in the city, perhaps next to the sea. that’s where i’d like to be. a house built on as an extension to my own library. the process of reinventing a world is no light feat, and i’ve been kissing goodbyes to diminished hopes and dreams, no longer dreaming of rhodes scholarship (having now bypassed the requisite age for application, lacking any sporting achievements), only yearning for awards of scholarship, academic success and for the time being, dreaming of living alone in a tiny city apartment.
my postgraduate invention entails perpetual fear, i’ve noticed.
romance was when he pulled her into an embrace after smoking outdoors, on the patio. he never struck her as the type to dance but the smoke shrunk all his inhibitions into tiny dwarves and he moved her hips for her, twirled her and pulled her closer. he became devilish, cocky and gentler in this haze. better girls had melted at the way a man’s fingers enclosed themselves around hers. but romance is, first and foremost, something sickly, i think, because it seduces quickly and it stings. it’s like those sinking sands, and the thing is, you slip into the act of writing about romance all the time because it is the only thing you think about. some closet romantics like myself yearn for this and when they have it, they destroy it so nobody knows their shame, their glee when they hold romance in their hands. it makes you feel too good.
betters girls have been destroyed by romance, because they become addicted to the ridiculous notion that it will never be snatched from them.
When I pressed my ear to your chest » you sounded like » somebody is licking out a clam found on the dunes, the tongue collecting nothing but sand grains. a poor portrayal of your density, (those innards are dusty, debased and you are despicable.) or is it just my lusty construction of the inner part of a commonly-consumed mollusk Would you find this to be a filthy comparison or Am I scarily accurate in ascribing the disingenuous & androgynous nature of some small sea insect to your hollow-hearted interior? I will always be disenchanted when all I can hear is echoes bouncing between chambers. When I roar into your chest.
i took max along to a courtney barnett gig at the toff in town, it was the thursday night that has just passed. i took an oath of sobriety on february 25th which i broke that night when i downed coopers with max, the boy that i rarely see because of my time-consuming study schedule. after catching the first few acts, courtney came on. the last song she played was pretty rockin, and we were quite close to the front. “thomas and i practiced our headbanging at the gig in canberra,” max yelled in my ear as we both shook our heads to the music, my hair become more disheveled every second. ‘you’re going to wake up tomorrow with neck cramps.’ he yelled again. “i won’t, because i practiced.”
the moment the photographer moved to the left and left a vacant space in the middle, max noticed me dancing just a little behind him, squashed, and motioned me to move forward. i shook my head vehemently and quickly, but i still got yanked to the front by him, but i continued my dance, i didn’t protest but i grinned like mad after that. had that been a scene in a film, it would have been subtle and the emphasis would have been on having a good time and perhaps nobody would have picked up on it at all, but what i am trying to show is what it said about that relationships are sometimes where you get necessary doses of courage, and there are friends who will push you into situations that you might want to be in, but might not find the courage to voluntarily put yourself in. and those are the friends you do not let go of.
the next day, headbanging cramp award 2013 went to me.
“Rock a little” means perseverance, “Rock a little” means rock a little all the time. If you rock out, you may not rock any more. (Nicks in Mary Turner “Off the Record” Interview, 1986)
'the independent woman' is a hard enough concept to grasp initially when said independent woman grew up in a cloistered environment. growing up with no television seemed like a bad idea at the time, but hindsight proves it actually helped. your sources of knowledge are books and stories from friends. you always question everything posed and presented to you. however the disconnection and the lack of informed and fulfilled general knowledge (not talking about common sense) makes it troublesome sometimes, your knowledge of the world doesn’t match everybody else’s and your knowledge is academic and scholastic, ultimately it’s limiting. to be let loose in the real world post that limited exposure, well, moderation is hardly going to be the first thing on your mind. with no one there to hold a stop sign to your face, any gentle soul is ready to strip themselves of their leash and go mad.
moderation, as was read somewhere else on the Internet sometime ago, is something you have to learn when you’re young and the idea of rocking a little consistently (rather than ‘rockin out’) makes me feel more nauseous than reassured. full-submersion, immersion and even the bad trip at the end might be exhausting and perhaps it damages you, but damaged people are dangerous, “they know they can survive.”