Thursday, August 9, 2012

coversations with people paid to listen to you. pt 1






















 untitled by .littlegirlblue


between the train station and my apartment there is a park. in the evenings it is a black, impenetrable heart at the centre of all roads leading home. it reeks of danger and you can sometimes hear the voice of young people in its darkness laughing or talking. sometimes you see shadows move amongst shadows. the girls avoid it religiously. they walk around its perimeter - on the other side of the street.

i've taken to walking through. looking straight ahead, ignoring even stirrings and voices. just straight through. it's like in top gun where danger zone starts to play and you know iz about to go down.


___*___*___*

tunnage:
written on the sky by max richter


___*___*___*

"so you've achieved your goals and... you're not happy."
"fine."
"ok. so... so now what?"
"what do you mean now what?"
"what are you going to do?"
"what i always do, aren't you listening? find a new goal and chase that. the problem isn't i'm unhappy, the problem is i've got nothing i'm aiming for."
"does that sound reasonable to you?"
"of course it doesn't. it sounds completely ridiculous."
"ok. so... "
"let it be ridiculous, i need something new to aspire towards."
"sounds to me like you just keep moving the goal posts back."
"what's wrong with that?, keeps you moving forward."
"nothing. except you're unhappy."
"why am i unhappy then?"
"maybe you're setting the wrong goal posts."
"..."
"..."
"what other goal posts are there?"
"i don't know. what do you think?"
"what like... relationships and... gym? like bench press 100 kilos by the end of the months? that's stupid."
"why did you bypass the relationships one?"
"because that's an impractical measure of anything."
"it's intangible, yes."
"right."
"so what? maybe what you're after is intangible."
"what i'm after is a reason to wake up in the morning. that will likely be intangible."
"why not chase something intangible?"
"because you'd never know if you got there."
"what if you woke up happy?"
"what does that even mean dude?"
"is it possible?"
"not on a wednesday."


___*___*___*

i know where we're heading.
here we are again.
[hurrah]


___*___*___*


sometimes i think the world is so much full of amazingness and that/such that i'm a dick for not being enraptured by it more often (the way i am when i listen to this <-- corny as it is).
___i don't know the answer to that proposition. i probably am. there, i said it.


___*___*___*

"that last bit, about [thing]"
"what about it?"
"do you say that often?"
"what?"
"sounded kinda like a speech. rehearsed."
"yah doc. i sat at home and practiced it in the mirror a few times before i came."
"probably you've expressed it before , said it out loud."
"i think about it, sure."
"why?"
"it fascinates me."
"why?"
"your parents get up and leave the country of their birth and everything they know - language, culture, people, places, all of it - and start again somewhere else from scratch at the age they did it... that's huge. massive. i put myself in their shoes and it rocks my little brain like a concert."


___*___*___*

"what do you mean 'bad'?"
"i can't be more specific than that."
"well... 'bad' isn't very specific."
"it feels like there's something in the way."
"what's the something?"
"me. obviously."


___*___*___*

i'm not looking forward to the rest of my life.
i'm sorry not to. i wish i was. i really do. ___but i'm not.
i'm conscious this isn't new.

i must see what i can do about ensuring my next life is less... is more graceful.


___*___*___*

dear writing: as you can see, i'm making an effort to hangout with you. so. stop being a bastardo and work with me here. come to me and make it easy. i'm exhausted i haven't slept in weeks i run around all day doing the most menial things, just... go easy on me and form yourself.

dear q: as you can see, we're making an effort to formulate you. so. stop being a bastardo and work with us here. come to us and make it easy. we're exhausted we haven't moved off the page in weeks we stand here all day holding up our meanings, just... go easy and describe yourself.

Sunday, August 5, 2012

tick tick tick




















D800 test shot 1 by ali khurshid


i walked back towards the train station it was LA's sky. blue. cloudless. invariable. __my stomach grumbled and i'd still be sick once or twice before the day was through, but for a minute, i closed my eyes and pretended it wasn't grey street, pretended it was rochester drive. a thrill.


___*___*___*

- will you come?, she'd like that if you do.
- you know, sometimes when people get married in random pacific islands it's so that randoms don't come, as in __that's the whole point
- yes yes, but she wants you to come, she wants us all there.
- ...
- ...
- ...
- well?
- yah. eff it. five days in fiji sounds just perfect.
- YES!
- yolo bitchez.
- double yes - wait -
- __what?
- ____what's yolo?
- i gotta get outta here.
- what?
- i'm moving.


___*___*___*

- are you fine?
- yes.
- are you happy?
- no.
- are you sad?
- no.
- wait. what? so what are you?
- ticking.
- like a bomb?
- no. like a clock.
- then what?
- then what?
- then what happens? 
- i don't know.  __should something be happening?
- doesn't it always?
- good point.
- so what's gonna happen?
- who knows. __tomorrow.
- tomorrow?
- yes. exactly. tomorrow's gonna happen. almost always tomorrow happens.


___*___*___*

i'm in a strange place. i don't know what's going on. i'm unable to distinguish anything from cardboard anymore. i'm worried i'll wake up one day and that'll mean i feel miserable. but for now, it's just a matter of doing things that need to be done, sleeping long enough to stay awake long enough to repeat it the next day. a redbull or three a day, two to four coffees and about seven cups of tea and i manage it __,mostly.

the house hunt continues - though not without ample resentment and frustration.


___*___*___*

my throat hurts from screaming. i'm not sure what we did last night, but it involved a fair bit of pelvic thrusting, masquerading as people having an amazingly fantastic time (which i actually think i was having) and the mandatory 'what's the dirtiest thing you've ever done' conversation.

the morning is too bright.
too soon.
and so much unwelcome.


___*___*___*

i'm trying to write, but it is a stranger to me. i am a stranger to it. none of this is anything. (not even good, it's not a thing, what the eff is it, it's nothing) but i have to do it. go through the motions. reconnect the neurons. find the steps again. i'm hoping it'll take me back. i'm soon to be left without nothing, i know it already. work is unsatisfying, the house hunt is the most unpleasant distraction i've ever found and in australia i never get sexed as often as i need. soon, words will be all i have again. maybe i'll run for the medicine cabinet and start tongue kissing a bottle full of amphetamines. who knows. anything can happen.

tomorrow.

for now

these words are not me.
they are mine though.
they are the periphery of something glowing (but not bright).
they are backstreets and endnotes. hints of something deeper rummaging about underneath. flutters in the shadows (in the night you hear a car drive past and the lines in the room shift just barely)

why do we bother doing anything that isn't burning?

i feel mostly like i'm carrying bricks around and placing them, tossing them, or kicking them from nowhere to nowhere else. one day there'll be a death-trap i have to sleep in.

tick

tick



tick __,