19
Apr 14

sounded good up there

winter days return with their covert light.

(credit: p.n)

one time, when i worked in the city, instead of going straight home — that is, instead of crossing the bridge and going directly up the hill — i took the long way. i detoured for an hour, maybe two. i skated this long, lazy loop around the harbour, via the restaurants and the playground and the water feature. it was getting chillier every night, and the dark came earlier each day. we were getting purple sunsets instead of red sunsets, but it was all just beginning and i loved it, so i traipsed through it, and through the throngs of people meeting for dinner or drinks or power-walking to their waterfront apartments. i traipsed through their nice shirts, their heels, their white collars. i loved them for being so handsome, so pretty. no one expected me home, or maybe it just felt that way. i took my time. i sat on all the benches i saw. i took a different foot bridge, took a different connecting street, turned left a little later. it was the start of something. it cut through all the grey. i felt very free. just totally unrestrained, unkept.

and there was this light breeze, and it eddied around that new purple haze, around those pretty people. it was special. and it was nothing.

these past few weeks i have been feeling like that a lot.

whatever this is, it comes with enough satisfaction and enough longing, for now. it is workable.

and here is a comfort. it still feels the same to scour the infinite web for something. going node to node, looking for spark or seed or one thing that might give you goosebumps. seeking gibran, plath. seeking williams, bukowski, the guy who wrote howl. seeking whitman. i who was visible become invisible.

that same wonder. the joy of it. and o, what a relief. what gratitude balloons in me! that i did not kill it, that i did not let it die or trade it in for a bare fistful of sheckels. what a gift, what a debt i owe.

 


14
Apr 14

nada

i gave myself this little challenge: write something every day, or read something writerly instead. you know, LITERATURE, that big heavy word.

(for me there is not much literature outside of the ’60s, but i’m not sure i can get into that right now.)

but i feel so rotten today. so puffy-eyed, cotton-brained, aching and rotten. so thumbs to everything. that’s all there is.


13
Apr 14

this is just to say

these people around me, they are religious people. true believers. and they take the diction of that word — religion — to heart in all its ways. there is faith and there is ritual. daily, hourly. prayers and kindness. the truest of them have that shared personality, that flat innocence that comes from eternal protection. there is no personal fire, it is all a fire for god. he swallows everything, devours everything, saves everything.

i get jealous because their comfort is so genuine. it is not the tenuous and desperate veil that detractors so often mention. it is real. thick. untouchable.

sometimes i want to tell them i’m sorry the only spot provided for prayer is so close to the staff toilets. i want to tell them i don’t mind the 3-minute absences — i can cover any time. i want to tell them that none of the rules about breaks are important, and they shouldn’t apologise so often and say thank you with such wide eyes. i want to tell them that nothing else matters, really, if you have found something in this world you can believe in. if your belief can saturate you so thoroughly. if you have that, then fuck a job. fuck a friendship. go to your prayer.

when the people around you have that, you get out of their way. there is a feeling you get in your chest — a responsibility that grips you — to prop up what you can and make the path as easy as you can.

and in the process of propping? in the process of seeing these men and women offer themselves again and again? in the process of witnessing the symptoms of their love? well. some things really hit you hard. like, i am not a good person, or a bad person, but i am alone. i am principled and sometimes broken, just like them, but i am alone. i am chained to my beliefs, just like them, but i am alone. i have sworn myself to the religious void and so the trees tower over me, the dark is monstrous, all i can be sure of is failure and sadness and loss. all i can know is that life ends, and before that it is just you on the road. for all the isms and the theorists and the numbers, for all my fire, for all the facts, there is just this: i am alone. but those people, regardless of what can be shown or reasoned, are wrapped in soft blankets. their troubles are swallowed up. there is something out there, for them, breathing in anything frenetic, anything bitter, anything with tears. taking it from them, and offering in return this gentle breeze. these promises. this great love.

i guess i always knew this. i never saw it, though. i never saw TRUE FAITH up close until i came to this place. i never knew the real price of that void i gave my word to. and i get it now, the truth you need to see, really. it doesn’t matter if god is real. his promises are. his placebos are. and that’s all the people came for. so, this god is real. every god is real.

i’m glad for them — for all religious people. it makes more sense to me now.


11
Apr 14

this one’s for you

i have this new, weird job. it’s weird because there is no accountability. if i wanted to, i could spend the whole day not doing any work and no one would really know. when i spend the whole day working hard, no one really knows. it all looks identical.

i fix something? a customer breaks it. i tidy something? a customer untidies it. i put something in its designated spot? a customer puts it somewhere else.

so you walk past aisle six and inevitably there is shit everywhere. if you review the tapes, you’ll see that i just spent forty minutes in that aisle, painstakingly organising everything. but when you walk past? shit everywhere.

and i don’t hate it. i am having these zen moments every day. i am embracing the process, i am not attached to any one outcome. i return to aisle six over and over. i love it there.

and sometimes my boss asks me what i’m doing. my job is to talk to people and put things away. so i say, “i’m talking to people and putting things away”. as i’m saying it, i feel like i’ve left something out. i feel like it’s the wrong answer. he nods, he tells me there is shit everywhere in aisle six. i return to aisle six.

and then my shift ends and i walk out. that is the expectation: the minute your shift ends, put everything down and leave. and every time this moment comes, every time i hit the end of my shift and i look around myself and see that there is shit everywhere in aisle six, i get this great rush. because i’m not tasked with this any more. my job is not about completion or closure. it is about time and process and there are rules. rule the first: no matter what, you leave on time. that’s the rule. so i take off the vest that has ‘customer service’ emblazoned across it, and i walk the fuck out.

it’s magical.

but, you know, it’s weird. it inverts everything i’ve ever known about work. it is inside out.


06
Apr 14

Untitled

it is a heavy feeling, and hard to describe.. when someone sits you down and says you can’t have what you want. cannot, in the sense of capacity. cannot, in the sense of the powers-that-be. in the sense of beyond choice, beyond you, beyond effort.

it is a heavy feeling. you sink with it. you get real quiet. you don’t want to listen anymore. you hate everyone’s words, their weak comforts. you demand their words. you demand their weak comforts. and, honestly? shamefully? it is some sort of relief. the pressure lifts. it is devastating and it is an out and it probably proves and disproves a lot of things about who you are and what you’re made of and where you’ll end up in the world.

i’m torn up. all the hard-won battles are being lost. sprints are slowing down. conditioning is dropping off. but HEY i come home now and i lie on the couch. i sleep in. i have all this new spare time to throw at traipsing back towards an easy average.

and oh, the bitterness. the contempt. all for that big, black, laughing universe. and i know how pointless it is, how infantile. how funny. how entitled. i know, and i sling it anyway. i spit. i rail. i settle. i rage and i shrink and i shrug and i settle.

but i think there is something in me, still. something with some balls. and some defiance. and some plans. and i think it is getting the shits at all this lying down. so, i don’t know, today i give my love to the universe and cross my fingers for a stable spine.


03
Apr 14

Untitled

#1: day dreams are little message packets from your own psyche. the persistent ones, the grandiose ones… they’re silly, and they’re serious, and you have to listen. they illuminate a need. they outline a path. follow your dreams? fuck that. follow your daydreams. they’re lucid. they’re speaking.


23
Mar 14

Untitled

i never know if i’ll publish a thing any more. because it’s so public, so private, so linked to me and unavoidably mine. so i write these drafts and these invisible words and they feel like posts, but it looks like nothing’s here. trust, there is buzzing behind the scenes. i guess this is the synopsis.

i got what i wanted. i’m not stuck in siberia anymore. my brain gets to talk to itself. my work no longer empties me. there’s no sitting, no slow expansion. some days i want to wear a power suit and offer up harsh words. make the ultimatums. walk around, puff my chest. some days.

a friend died. a dad. a man i admired and loved. it was gradual and then sudden. it was a surprise and an inevitability. i still haven’t shaken it off, and i feel like i have no right to hold on to it.

there are things i want to learn this year. a bunch of things. programming, net/infosec, parkour. i want to remember writing. poems, journal entries, a running brain stain. i doubt myself, i doubt i will follow through. i doubt i will endure.

i’m happy, i’m excited, i’m dubious about the decency of man.

love meg.


16
Jan 14

It’s Called A Word Salad

It’s been a long time since I blogged like I used to. It’s been a long time since I even thought that way.

When I was 16 I would be awake all night reading and writing and re-writing, trying to perfect my Bukowski vibe. I’d hit up Angelina, Pax, Bobby Skullbolt, Green Catfish. I listened to Saul Williams on repeat and tapped away for hours. My dad was in the other room creating an internet empire. School started 180 minutes after my bed time. I had a lot to say.

And then what? A split between the dark and the light. I got dragged outside. Girls, boys, beer, music. Friends. And then what? More nothing. I got shoved towards the middle. Straight line thinking. A to B. Direct. Grind. Grind. And then what?

Something. Something bad. Something gradual. Something insidious. I guess I stopped living like me. I walked away from art. Not in a pretentious way. In that other way. You know. I’m talking about the other kind of art. Where you feel like every minute is an event. Where you invest, daily. Where you follow yourself. Where you see yourself and you see other things and the seeing is what matters to you. That art. Well. I stopped seeing myself. I excised a lot of nothing. Like half of the planet, I can write one hell of a sentence when I want to – but about what? That’s the thing. The life thing. I held down the bluebird.

Thankfully, the truth will out, no matter what. There was just something in there that would not stop, would not shut up. It would not settle, and I could not settle. I got frenetic. Things broke free. I couldn’t put words to it but I tried everything – at the same goddam time. I could barely keep up with myself. I still get defensive about it; about the jumps and half-starts and changes. I point out all the reasons those things are okay, are good: mostly, that I don’t want to know just one thing in life. To have done just one thing. I tell people that. And I imagine my soliloquies, my grand stands, to and against so many unmet foes. I construct the logic. I know it’s tight. Winnable. But damn, why do I feel so defensive?

And then what? Now what? These little moments begin to peek in. These little slices of Old Me. Having something to say. Learning new things. Finding new truths. Revelations in the weirdest places. What’s the difference between me and some girl my age who grew up with a different mum? It’s standing in the corner of some fucking dirty Campbelltown warehouse and discussing our shared ambitions. The truth about opportunity and support and tax brackets and the future, right there. Felt, and finally understood. All I’m thinking is, fuck. Fuck. I’m sorry. Good luck.

Heavy stuff, and then silly stuff. Speaking meta-physically. Dreaming quantum physically. Smashed thought platters. Real brain mash-ups you just don’t tell anyone about because they’re so stupid. They always get you somewhere, though. Welcome back.

Anyway, here and now, that’s what. An earlier me, crawling home. I’m listening to Saul Williams on repeat and hitting my old spots. I’m feeling a little better, a little less foreign to myself. A little less defensive.

Because – and this is the truth, defensive or not – I don’t want to know just one thing. I don’t want to have just one root, one single line that can be traced backwards without detour.

**

I get to these places, these blog places, and I ask myself: What’s the truth? Say that. Tell the truth. I try to, but I’m never sure. I’ve always been afraid that I’m incurably full of shit. Like, I can’t trust my personal data. I don’t know why. I have theories. One is that I was too often told of my unrealised potential as a kid. I took it too far in, over-identified with it. The pathology of that idea explains practically everything.

If someone decides you’re smart, but underachieving, you are elevated to this special place for them. They treat you almost the same as if you were actually achieving – sometimes they treat you better. They smile at you in this way, and they say, “Look how well you’re doing now! If you’d just focus you’d be unstoppable! Exceptional!” and they tell other people how exceptional you’d be, and those people do the same. They all keep telling you that your perceived lack of effort is proof of your special intelligence. And once this is set up, you never have to try – your proposed potential does all the work for you. But eventually you have two thoughts, and they change you. 1) Am I really not trying? and, 2) I’m stuck. Because there’s this global story about you now, this mythology, and if you try and you are not exceptional then you’re what? And if you can’t try, how will you know if you’re already trying? So anyway, blah blah blah, 20 years pass and you still don’t know if you’ve got it or you’re just full of shit.

And, yeah. Who cares? That’s the middle class narrative, right? We all lived it. We’re all so full of potential. We’re all so frozen by it. I don’t remember why I mentioned it in the first place.

Hmm. What is the truth? Say that.

I still want to be a writer some day. There are caveats though. I’m not talking polished, employed, to order. I am talking me, circa 2004. Wild. Awful. Self-indulgent. Unreachable.

Not a human machine; a writer. Someone who did all this stuff and saw all this stuff and understood all this stuff and hung out in the corner of a warehouse and at the head of the boardroom and doesn’t speak the language and lived through the whole thing and prevented a minor tragedy and saved someone from fate and saved themselves from whatever. Yep. That’s the truth. And there is something deeper than my affects and uncertainties that helps me along, that clicks on and off when I’m making my plans. It is bullshit-free. It is trustworthy and wise. It is rage, misery, excitement. It has been patiently verballing me for years.. And now that I’m finally back on the path, I am getting that feeling again. The one I had when I stayed up all night devouring great words and great thoughts and listening to Saul Williams on repeat.


22
Oct 13

Untitled

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