Jul 15


i sort of broke my car.

i’ve been looking at new cars. most of the ones i want are in sydney. and if i go back there, what happens? i keep imagining visiting my old house. is that weird? i want to walk down my street a little bit. i want to buy a magnum from the corner store. i want to ride my bike by the river and go shopping in marrickville. i never really liked sydney, but i miss my house a lot. and my little routines. sometimes i miss that feeling i had. that unruffled, flat-line comfort. sometimes it makes me choke.

Jul 15


don’t you love it when you wonder your way through some deep question about your TRUEST SELF and thirty minutes later the answer occurs to you in the shower.

it’s just handed to you, fully-formed.

brains, man. they are somethin’ else. i have some real feels for mine. it is a great pal.

(i mean that in the most non-schizotypal way possible)

Jul 15


i have a journal, like a real life one. for some reason it feels less secure than my public website. apparently i don’t want to admit anything, anywhere. what if someone sees, what if someone sees? sees what?

but it’s different in there. in my journal. it’s very straight forward. i just say stuff. i don’t care how it sounds. and the funny thing is: it usually sounds beautiful. i get right in there. but i compare my journal to my public ramblings, and they’re wholly different. it’s like two different people were in two different rooms talking about two different lives. so. i laugh. because that’s me in writing and it’s me in the world.

i am very clear on what i’m about, what i like, what i dislike. i’m clear on me. i generate my own self worth and i am compulsively self-aware — traits that have saved me a lot of problems in life. but, straight up, there are two “real” versions of me. there is a me you unleash at parties, and there is a me you endure at home.

i can’t reconcile them. they’re irreconcilable. there’s no hybrid mid-point that i’ll get to one day. and, no, i don’t know which is more authentic, if either. i suspect they’re just the upper and lower bounds of the same line.

there’s one i’ve settled into as an adult. it is the sensible one, the upright one, the one with too many questions and too many conclusions. the one who won’t listen. the one who is genuine and invested and insulated and impenetrable. it is sort of un-likeable and pure. it is the one people recover from with something wild and stupid and free.

and then there’s the other one. the one i grew up as. the human analogy of excited gesticulation. the razzle dazzle. the vamp. i can turn it on, and mostly i can keep it turned off. mostly, i rein it in. sometimes it slips, especially when i’m tired or i’m sad and i need that little social hit. that bump. but mostly, i control it. i can keep it bound. or. i can unlock it with a thought and i can charm people and let them drink me up. everyone loves a raconteur. everyone loves to be courted. they flash their eyes and they are drawn in and they feel adored. it takes nothing for me to hold them in my palm.

all my friends met me as one and then saw me as the other. every one of them has asked about it. and i never know what to say.

because yeah when i’m composed, when i’m pulled in and operating on that day-to-day level, i can still wheel it out, but i tend not to go there. i tend not to throw on that brand of charisma because it is almost an act of self-worship. honestly, that is what most charisma is. you invite people to engage in your performance of self-deification. they bathe in the overflow. it is very narcissistic (hence the allure of the narcissist). meanwhile, there is a different kind of charm. it’s smaller and more thoughtful and more about other people. i like that one more. but most people like the big show. they like the adventure. the buzz of the grandiose.


so when people say, you know, which one are you? i have no idea. i am both. i like both. i prefer the one i think is better for the world, but i am insatiable for the other. it fills me up like nothing else. does that mean i’m like this, or like that? am i one true thing + some aspirations? how do i know?

and why is there always a side to pick? monosexuals, monotheists, monopersonals.

the glitter is big and it is powerful and it takes everything in its path, but it is not me at home. i’m quiet, and i like to daydream and i think about space a lot. one version of me doesn’t give a fuck who you are, and one version of me will never forget a single thing about you. they’re worlds away from one another, and they are both the same.

i guess. the me you get is a function of how i am, right then. sometimes i want to keep people and sometimes i just want people to like me more than someone else. for years i was one, but right now i’m overwhelmingly the other. if we’re being honest. it’s predictable and it’s kind of pathetic but i’m giving myself a pass. for now.

that’s who. (:

Jun 15


i guess if i could tell you anything, it would be this: hold fast. there will be a day you wake up and notice the sun. there will be a day you don’t cry. there will be a day that starts and ends with you feeling half-built — but built, at least. not crumbling, not fractured.

things will still be strange. her phantoms will surround you. and you’ll still get all those little shocks; those little reminders that it’s just you now. you’ll never feel like you understand. you’ll never KNOW. but you won’t have to. you won’t need anything, anymore.

and i can tell you this: spit out everything inside you. let it go. keep spitting and shouting and raging until you feel something shift. there will be a moment of change. a moment of acceptance. when you’ve said everything you want to say, and when you’ve heard every answer, there will be a point. maybe you’ll hear what you needed to hear. maybe you’ll hear its absence. but there will be a point when you step out of that melancholic limbo and you lift your head.

that lone wolf in you will wake up. you will take your own hand. everything will be okay.

i hope that you will have the chance for gratitude. i hope that you will be able to look back and say ‘yea gods, what a gift you have given me’. it helps, very much. because even if the last day was a horrible mistake, even if you wasted one week too many, even if some cosmic prank was had at your expense, recognising that this beautiful thing was yours for so long… it can mend a lot of tears.

there were no answers for me. but to have had it, ever? and for so long? to have known those things for so many years? that’s everything you could wish for. maybe some people don’t get that. maybe they don’t get 2000 days of knowing, without one doubt, that some good, kind person sees them and loves them very much.

yea, gods. what a gift you have given me.


and there are still beautiful things.

they can fill some part of you with their beauty. like. there is a function in this world whose rate of change is equal to its own output at every point. i can’t tell you how that made me feel when i first thought it through. it’s nuclear. this is a tiny, little fact! it just presents itself! it is available to us at no cost, and how divine? how wonderful? it is transplanetary. it is solar.

and triangles. the euclidean constraint. built by ratios. bound every day in the same way. crazy. if you can’t prove something with a triangle, you’re full of shit. and circles. my god. x^2+y^2. really? REALLY.

there are still beautiful things. and i am pleased they are beautiful. i am pleased there is black magic and dark days and hard choices and soft landings. i am pleased i had what i had. i am pleased i am pleased i am pleased.

and if i could tell you anything, whoever you are, it would be that you will be pleased too. shit, maybe you won’t be happy. but one day, you’ll see something beautiful. you will sit up. you will stop sobbing. your chest will ache less. your throat will open. you will be able to hear people talk again. you will feel like the world welcomes you. you will hold your own hand. you will be okay.

it’s not infallible. you’ll snap in and out of it. but the point is, you’ll snap out. no matter who you lost, or what you lost, or how. no matter what. you’ll snap out. that’s what i’d tell you.

oh. and get enough sleep. don’t drink too much. go to the beach. hug your friend because he always makes time for you. kiss your dog’s little nose. take baths. do whatever the fuck you want, often. find that dusty you.

i’d tell you that too.

Jun 15


What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.

V. Woolf

Jun 15


okay. sadness is good, and moping, and the sitting with things. important. necessary. and done.

i was blind-sided, is all. without knowing it, i had an expectation. i thought it would be me and the other pea. we’d move through it all together. we’d shift slowly. steadily, at least. no pea left behind. you know. the peas! the pod! undamaged.

and i get that was silly. i get that was naive. i get that i misunderstood the nature of things. i get that i overestimated our dynamic. and that’s what sucker punched me. it shot up from nowhere. it won’t let me be. oh mannnn, does it sting. to realise you misread this fundamental thing? to realise you mistook your place? you shrink. you shrink right down. there is a peculiar shame to it.

so what are you left with? the first problem, and now a second. both separately insurmountable. together, hopeless. you are left with shitty quotes, unanimous advice. you are left with a frenzy. you are left in the dust. you are left alone. no peas, no pod. as you asked.

but up, always up. it’s time to reframe, to recoup. this has taken its toll, and i’ve paid. there is no more cause for speculation. there is no more room for wistful hope. no visions of a different story tomorrow. there has been scrutiny, there has been truth. there is no way around it, no path through it.

okay. message received. i yield.

today i have lived The Big Fear. it was the thing i couldn’t remember: what does life feel like outside the pod? for the moment, it is grim. it is gritty and empty. there are echoes, shadows. things are hazy and confused. but it feels stark, too. big. and there are people around, people who know. there are reasons. good ones. there are facts, and futures.


i gotta find a way to quit whining. i gotta figure out how to let go of all this stupid bullshit and buck up. because, on the real, no one cares. no one cares when a goodbye is met with a departure. no one gives a shit about my protracted turmoil — least of all, my pea (not mine, never mine, i think). and no one should. so i gotta stop, now. no more fucking up under some banner of heartache. fuck your heartache, ahoy. clearly, there is a way to be liberated from heartache. for me, it has to be the work. at least for a few weeks. i gotta put my head down and cut the crap. i gotta finish. and then i can suffer, or triumph, or ghost. whatever, whatever, whatever. but not now.


Jun 15


what a giant day. what a week of days. and this? elephantine. fraught.

some peace in the afternoon.

at 2am, release.

freed from hope. stung.

it is bitter. it is sweet.

at 3am, just bitter.

Jun 15


i do feel i am unknowable. i do feel i am some distance apart from things. that it takes a lot for me to be otherwise. i do feel warmth for people. i feel joy for them. i feel deeply hurt. deeply angered. deeply loyal. i feel things, maybe in excess, but they never make it across. they never get back. maybe i consume them as i go. maybe i don’t. maybe i should learn how to cry more or take better laughing photos or stare deeper, longer. maybe i don’t scream enough. maybe i am not connected to my face. maybe something is loose. or missing. or broken. because i feel things but people never know, and they are hungry for it. they are mad for it. they want more, always. they don’t care how deep it is, they want it to be visible. they want someone who spills over with unconsidered expression. they want only the raw and violent and explicit. but all i have is this quiet, private yen. for the people around me, for the world, for everything. all i have are these facts. that i love you, that so many names make me smile, that i am happy for you, that i am a hulking fury. godzilla. et cetera.

i do feel i am unknowable. and i don’t mind. i have learned to celebrate myself. i have learned to say, yes, i am unknowable. but i am good in there. i am earnest. i make wishes every day. i imagine things. i say thank you when the sky is blue. i wonder about it all. i really want the best for you, whoever you are. i cherish the people who are kind. i work hard to be less punitive, less harsh, less defensive. i try to feel my embarrassment. i try to be vulnerable. there is a whirl in me. there is a lot happening in there, no matter who knows.

and that is mostly enough. but sometimes there are exceptions. sometimes there are conversations that surround me. sometimes there are moments. sometimes there are people. i feel pulled in. i feel known. i feel like someone has reached across and touched my wrist and smiled at me and said, ‘yes, i know, me too.’

and they are revelatory. they are significant. for a second, i am not alien. separate. i’m in there, i’m under it and part of it and it’s easy. it’s singular and rare and important.

so it doesn’t matter if those seconds were real. it doesn’t matter if the moment or the conversation meant something different to someone else. it doesn’t matter if the person never knew. not really. what matters is i got to feel it at the time. i got to borrow it for a while.


it occurs to me that i can do this in two ways. as i am, or better. as i am would turn ugly. it would be spiteful, vengeful. it would be petty. i think. i fear? i am convinced. i am betrayed. deep down. that is all it takes to release my blacker spirit. as i say, i am a fury. i am godzilla.

but that’s not what i want. i want to grow bigger, to step back and witness. to see this as a fable from some earlier version of myself. i want to expand and overcome. i want to be genuine. i want to drip with good will. i want to opt out. i want to mock no one, i want to hate no one. i want to be unchained.

i asked my friend how she was doing, how it was all going for her. she said, ‘i am still trying to get up off the floor.’ and i thought. you know. let me get us some bean bags and some lemonade. yes. i know. me too.

Jun 15

6 weeks later and

the things that rip at me are strange. i find them strange. non-entities in a 6-year movement now fill me with sore spots.

the little island in the kitchen. it’s just where i used to leave my keys. it was the first thing i’d look past when i walked in. the place i dropped my mail. i didn’t even notice it then. now it sits in a spare room and any time i see it, i howl. i crumble.

the grocery store. and certain arrangements of items. apricot ripples, rice wheels, fruit straps. whittaker’s coconut slab. spray-on deodorant AND roll-on deodorant. and. just. those aisles, walking them in that pattern. it doesn’t matter that i’m in a different state. they’re the same aisles. it’s always sunday night.

green tea after dinner. singlets in the cold. fuzzy sick slippers.

that particular hand soap. that particular body wash.

finding our router. our towels. our little wicker fucking baskets.

just things, things that meant nothing. things that now feel heavy and important. and lost. things i can’t take anymore. things i mourn.

i guess rituals are important. i guess they prop up all the moments. and they exist even in the very small. the minutiae of life. and i guess that’s where things build up, outside of the grand gestures and the top level. so it makes sense, but i never prepared for this. for a long arc of sadness, yes. for a horrible desolation. an ache. a sorrow. for a panic that drifts in with the darkness. yes, yes, yes. yes. but these tiny things? i didn’t see them coming.

and they gouge at something different. that was my life. you know. all these little things. they happened again and again and i loved them too. i loved them without knowing it. and i lost them without knowing it. and. well. now i don’t.. i don’t know.

i’m glad it’s still kind, and decent, and honest. i’m glad there is still loyalty and gratitude and this great depth of love. we are ending things in the manner with which we enjoyed them. but that was my life. and no matter how right we are, no matter how gentle… that was my life. and it is gone now.



Apr 15


I must worry now, I guess, that when I listen to beautiful music, someone will die. Or they will try to. They will move towards death, or be moved. It will come towards them. I will see sunlight filtered through the wood, I will see the blues and the greens and the golden glow in technicolour hue, and they will inch down the passage.

I wonder sometimes why I can be overcome like that. How can you go — in a moment, a slim and nothing moment — from your state of natural equilibrium, your relative comfort, your composure… from all that, straight to faithless, haunted. There is nothing, and then there arrives a brutality on your senses, a loss. A crumpling. With just a string, or a whistle, you fly back there, and the light filters through the wood, and there are blues and greens and that straw-gold glow, and the song finishes, and your friend is no more.

People try to convince me all the time that there is a veil around me, that I am awash in the light and love of my ancestors. That we all are. That there is proof. That we can attribute our wins to those we’ve lost. That it was my grandfather, my great grandmother, who kept me safe, got me home, made me smile. People I loved, and miss. People that meant a lot to me, but who are gone now. And I let everyone talk, I laugh with them, I mirror their excitement. They tell me their stories, about balloons, about lights, or smells, or coins. I listen and I go with them and I hope they are okay. But I am untouched. I don’t see it. I can’t see my way to it, to any of it. It is not there for me. It just… isn’t.

But some days. Some days I wish it were there. I wish I could see it. I wish that I could be told there is cancer and I could feel assured that someone would handle it. I wish I could believe that there exists in this world, still, the quiet power of my grandfather. That my kind, little nana still sings her sweet songs.

Instead it is just us, and it is uncertainty, and it is the idea we will all be lonely one day, we will all be without our mum, we will all lose our dad. There is cancer and there is loss and there is beautiful music to store it all in.