Monday, 28 January 2013

Clinging to each word

Since each word is a moment, a thought, a piece of my life, I cling to them all desperately like I am trying to hold on to my life. I think I shall archive everything and post what seems to have the most value.

In the meantime, my mind is tripping on Crystal Castles. Violent mental shaking and then gentle swaying. Caution: Playing loudly will result in a world of your own.

I will try and paint what they sound like. Be prepared for neon prisms and rainy showers of light.

Picture it and Write

My contribution to Picture it and Write. These are good fun! some people come up with some amazing things...

Hidden in the crevasses of time, far away from where the reaches of the material world can fathom, is a haloed place reserved for lovers. Each has their own, reserved for them forever before they even existed. Out of the folds of darkness they find a sanctuary for what they feel, in a warm womb of protection they can remain forever enveloped and undisturbed.'

Why does this plane exist? Because love is a divine gift lent to man, a gift far too sweet and noble for our crass race. As mercy dropeth like rain, so does love, yet ever rarer. And when man is able to not just bear it but let it flourish, a beauty is created that is far too pure for the material world. So away  from the cruel extinguishments of time, the polluted lives of man and adulterated emotions we hold, away from all this, that Love is allowed to exist. Exist independently and alone, peaceful and infinite in the Lovers Pool.

Wednesday, 23 January 2013

Picture it and Write

When I was a young girl, I regularly saw something that others could not see. Note that I do not say I imagined things, for though this is possible I do not think it is accurate. Note also that I do not say that I saw things, for there was ever only one sight that I alone could see. It would happen like this. I would be at kindergarten, like a regular child in all other respects. Then I would sense movement out of the corner of my eye. Foreign movement that was not another child in my sandpit, some jerkiness that would make me turn. And then, out of nowhere, a grand plane of blue would appear in that direction. An endless plane, stretching from the ground far into the sky where I could not see. There was no going around it. I dug at its base one time and concluded there was no going under it. It looked rubber and plastic, I remember thinking like a balloon endlessly stretched.

I was not afraid of the blue wall, or the people behind it. Perhaps it was because I encountered them for as long as I could remember, they did not seem remarkable. I just thought they appeared. I saw them maybe once a week in any and every location and time of day. Other people did not acknowledge them, yet they seemed to lose all sense of the space blocked off, because everybody always walked neatly around them, as if they thought the earth discontinued past that point.

If there was nothing behind the wall than I probably would have never approached them and would have been a normal child. But there were people behind it and they would visit me. I thought of them as my friends. The one who visited me the most was a woman. Like the rest, she was bald, and tall and naked like a barbie. She would lean into the wall and watch me as I played. I called her Serena after Sailor Moon on TV, which she accepted after I explained to her who Sailor Moon was. I would tell her how my day was going. She reminded me of my mother, except she didn't scold. She was my favourite. There were others, men and women, but they came and went. Serena stayed.

But then she and the others began to get upset and that's when the trouble started. I was reading one day when I noticed a woman trying to get through. Trying tremendously, clawing and scrapping, I could see her nails grasp at the wall and grip it and I was very scared. It was violent, she bit it and tore with her teeth and clawed a hand towards me. I stepped back suddenly. They had never tried to get through before. The woman was silent, the people always were, but I felt she was trying to scream, the wall stretched across her wide open mouth as she pushed her face into it.

And then they all started trying to get through. And the more they failed, the angrier they got at me. I would not sit close any more. I sat far back and pulled my knees up close under my chin and stayed very still, always afraid that the wall would not hold, watching without blinking the clawing people. They would always face me, as if they were trying to get to me. Sometimes I thought they wanted to eat me. And then, I would for a moment break eye contact, and the wall would go as it always had.

When I saw Serena again, I burst into tears and huddled up close to the wall. I was confused that my friends hated me. She sat down with me and huddled up too. I think she was crying as well. This time, she clawed at the wall as well. Not like the others, angry and desperate, but mournfully. My young heart was moved to pity, and I clawed back, relieved that my friend did not hate me like the others and jointly despaired at her pain.

By this stage, my constant terror had taken a toll on me. I barely slept and screamed through nightmares when I did. I rarely spoke, always watchful for the wall to appear so that I could duly back away.

My parents took me to a man in a large office. He was very nice and let me play with a box of toys on the condition that I listen to him. I played but with a watchful eye on the space behind him, as was my habit now. He asked what was there and I was surprised that he realised there was something. In a hushed voice, I told him quietly what I needed to watch out for. He took it just as seriously as it needed to be and stayed silent for a good while. And here is what he then said.

'We are going to try something. I want you to close your eyes tight and imagine the room we are in. Imagine each corner, its size, the couches we are sitting on. Imagine hard, so you can see it crystal clear. Now on the count of three, I want you to open your eyes and see nothing but what you imagined. See that nothing has changed. See that there is no wall, it can not get here.'

Such disregard for the wall scared me, it seemed an insult that might anger the people behind it. I hesitated at first, kept my eyes tightly shut. But he coaxed me into opening them. And I saw no wall. I took me a while to be convinced because experience had taught me it could show up any time. But on the man's instruction, I repeated my refutation of the wall throughout the day. At first I needed to do it often, but then less and less until one day I realised I had not done it for a week. And then I stopped thinking of it altogether.

I never saw it again. When I was older, many years after, I awoke in the night crying tremendous tears. They rolled thick and my heart felt sore like somebody had died, yet my mind was empty of anything upsetting. And then like a drop of water impacting on my mind, I remembered Serena and I mourned my lost friend. I felt like I had left her, either in the recesses of my mind or trapped in an lonely place behind a smothering wall. Whatever insight adulthood had offered me was paltry. I moaned and I wailed and my grief continues to be real.

Ernest Hemingway

There is nothing to write. All you do is sit down at your typewriter and bleed.

Tuesday, 22 January 2013

I am going to turn on some jazz

That smooth, slow beautiful jazz that time allows me for free. Ahh that's nice. The world transform to night around me when I hear it, a desperate almost manic joy and excitability like its the last night on earth. Everybody moving, everybody feeling. Everybody feeling entitled to their place there. Everybody drunk on the music. How I would spin and spin. Each instrument, voice and trumpet and cello, hit and strum and sung with impulse, on impulse, complementing each other and competing with each other, fighting and toiling and spinning with each other.

This is music. This is music to shake the world.

How sweet is music! some silver liquid the thickness of glue, shiny and glittering. And it flows tremendously, viscous, always a flood and a spill. When it flows you can not hide! it covers all surfaces it can! That is music. Sweet sweet liquid that can not be contained.  And when it has covered every surface, it begins to jump and stomp. Like invisible feet are marching all through it, it is tumultuous and it moves and splashes. Playing and in time with itself yet wild and random. What a sight! A thousand invisible dancers moving the music! That is what music is.

And spin and spin and spin and jump and hop and shake and spin and touch hands and tip and tip and shake and spin and swaaaay. And when you are down, when you are sad, the music is a soft sea that carries you. Carries you away from your problems and washes clean where you came from. A caressing pool to ease your pain. It pulls tears from your eyes but then your tears are no more. This is music.

Brown eyed handsome man

Listening to: Duke Ellington

Hot and Bothered
Cotton Club Stomp
Mood Indigo

Monday, 21 January 2013

I have been rejected again from the world and now I just want to run from it. I feel wronged, so wronged. Screw all my efforts, fuck this shit. I keep trying but the world just keep laughing

Friday, 18 January 2013

Uhh rejection. It hurts so much. It feels unfamiliar now, after my weeks on the happy pills. It still hurts though. What do I do? I am too tired to write or paint or draw. Too ashamed too talk about.

I go to bed. I craft and weave my dreams and set them in motion. This world is just as real as the next.

Tuesday, 15 January 2013

The Sky fell into the Sea

The sea in my dreams

The sea is a regular feature in my dreams, along with malfunctioning toilets. Even though I had not dreamt of the sea last night, my 750 turned to describing what the sea is like in my dreams anyway. This is an excerpt:

Ahh my dreams of the bach how beautiful they are. Of wild waves and tumultuous surf, encroaching upon the house. Waves too big for me to deal with, pulls too strong and rips too gripping. But still I am not afraid! The sea is an artists palette, dark blue and light blue with branches of purple and several little stars that have come down from the sky have found a home in my sea. It is a much more alive thing in my dreams. It is like the sea is sleeping, dormant but I have seen it awake and angry and upset. Pieces of wood and seaweed and rubbish are thrown away then retrieved and it sucks. And what do you find in the water? Fish and people and whales and all sorts. The other week I saw a golden whale. Bright-pikachu yellow, it was a blubbery thing. Taken out of the water it looked liked gold woo woo grub, but submerged it was a golden magical fruit. The waves themselves are the real attraction though, never what they contain. Ain't that the way. I go down to the waves, walking my normal maybe 100 metres to the water. But once in, the waves roar! The begin to reach and and the pull not just back into itself because the tide is going out, but side to side as if it is arguing with itself. And we are tossed and thrown amongst the waves! They grow and they grow, once the water reaches further up the beach, the waves come next and the roll and smash, over the grasses that finish the beach. The water is so that we are carried up the hill, to the road. Watching from the bach it is a tremendous sight. It does not look like a natural occurrence. Oh no, it looks like Poseidon raging or the sea raging. It looks angry but not vengeful, more upset and expressive. Each wave crash is a morose moannnnnn. 

Ahh my sea. All this from a dream I have not had recently. I told you it was alive. Some seas seem tame, like the oft visited, like Mission Bay. I bet one day they will rise up and strike and scream for what they want. And wail and rock from side to side like a wronged toddler.  Some dreams we sit watching the waves as they approach knowing that they will get to the house but not really frightened that the house will not hold. Just don't go downstairs for a while haha. One dream was quite different; perhaps the sea was more aggressive this time, for I saw us safely driving away as the waves got closer.

The sea in my dreams is so beautiful, I might have to try draw it. I will post my attempt.

Sunday, 13 January 2013

My waking dream

Rain incredible pouring rain. But not like pouring. It is a consistent vertically downward shower, even everywhere as far the eye can see. The  world looks like it sis being cleaned, but this is not the world. There are platforms, square platforms about 1.1m x 1.1. What are they made of? I do not know, wood maybe? I rise from the water, my heads bursts through the surface. I take that first breath and my mouth tastes the sweet rain and inhales the sweet air. I can hear myself puffing. not urgently but peacefully like I have been doing deep breathing. My eyes are closed as I take those first breaths. My arms, I do not reach out of the water but let float either side of me on the surface of the water. The water is the colour of the rain in the air, a light grey. I hear my breath first. Loud and reassuring. Then I hear the rain. The most beautiful symphony allowed to be hear by our natural ears. I suppose others would call it deafening  Light it seems to me. Because the only thing it is hitting is the water, not roofs of any sort or windows. I do not think I can describe the sound of of rain. Like a gentle waterfall? Our thoughts of it are corrupted by our 'mastery' over it. There is no sound of thunder or wind, just the pure rain. 

I stand do not feel any ground to put my feet on. But I lengthen straight and the water is up to my lower chest, nearly my arm pits. I open my eyes and I see the world of gray water. Beside me is a platform. I see in the distance a figure who is a shadow because of the curtain of rain. Somebody huddled sitting on the surface of the water, must be another platform. I wade towards the one nearest me. I am not cold or tired. I desire not escape from the water (for that would be impossible anyway) but to see what the platform allows me to see. The water was light to move through, as if it was not a body of water at all but just very, very condensed rain that was still falling. When I reached the platform  I put both palms down flat either side of me and pushed. It seemed the water pushed too, it had more uplift. I easily swung my legs onto the platform. I did not stand, I sat on the platform though I do not know what my posture was. I do not feel like I have left the water, if there is a difference it is small, perhaps I do not notice no longer being wet. The platform does allow me sight. The platform nearest to me is about eight or ten metres away. I lift my head and the figure is visible. Zhuangzi. 

He is sitting, as splayed out as if he was lying. He moustache and beard are exactly has we depict those in Ancient China. He is calm (naturally) as if he has been sitting there for many years, or if time does not exist in this place. The rain continues, he looks through it at me. He does not move once. But he speaks to me as he looks. I do not know how to transcribe this silent language. At some stage, I notice at greater distances are other figures. Distance of twenty and fifty and a hundred metres. I notice about six in this area, there might be more that I can not see, or have not been allowed to see yet. The ones around me I can see, some have figures and some do not. Who are they? Perhaps one is Xunzi, or Laozi. The others I have no idea. I have not been allowed to see them yet. Zhuangzi gives me a final instruction and returns to his, not sleep, personal thinking and calm. He looks away from me and return to himself not looking at anything. I know he has not forgotten me though. And I follow his instruction. I too, stop trying to observe. I breath in the air and the rain again and I settle onto my platform and relax.  My deep, deep breaths come again. 

Friday, 11 January 2013

John Steinbeck

“Write freely and as rapidly as possible. Never correct or rewrite until the whole thing is down.”

Edward Munch

From my rotting body,
flowers shall grow
and I am in them
and that is eternity.

Wednesday, 9 January 2013

Phew. The morning after New Years Eve. I have slept away elven hours of the New Year already and boy do I feel like shit. I am one of those people who join in with the pre-party enthusiasm, the hopes and the goals. But then, when that countdown is happening down to midnight and we are all working together in a drunken daze, I remember the previous year’s goals, and the previous. And then, as the New Year crashes into me, I become an ephemeroptera. A little mayfly who had just been sat down by Mum and Dad mayfly. ‘Son,’ they say to me. ‘You’ve done so well and we’re very proud of you – you can hover better than any fly your age!’ I sit quietly, unsure why I was being treated with these accolades. Mum and Dad look at each other, exchanging worried looks as if silently trying to decide who should speak. It’s Mum who opens her mouth first. ‘Dear, you’ve grown so much since you hatched this morning, I’m afraid it won’t be long until you start getting too old to fly.’ I am tremendously confused. Mum and Dad can’t fly, but they’re super old! ‘What do you mean, Mum?’ Glum faces all round. ‘Well dear it’s most likely you will start getting weak this evening, and then… well and then you will pass on honey. Like me and your father will this afternoon.’
I feel raw as the full extent of my mortality smashes into me. Just a little mayfly, bound to go through the motions of everybody else. I groan and curse New Years and its illusions of hope, and gratefully return my hung-over self to unconsciousness. 

Tuesday, 8 January 2013

Todays 750 words got distracted...

... never mind, I don't think that is possible if memory of their purpose proves correct.

They sit like little neon tadpoles surfaced on a pond; the green and pink highlighters, playful and young!
Near them the separated mouth, the silk cavern with teeth; the pencil case, the holder of all, its keeps
the little red heart, with it edges rounded so, what does mean, when the heart eraser is not clean!
Near these specimens lives the water tower. Shiny blue metal surface reflects me in my thirst, If only it were bigger, for last night I was at my worst!
East of this is my feminine marker, for which lady is allowed into the day without brushing her hair before and after?
Before all of these, the things I need to throw out, the scraps of a paper cutting session, a used tooth flossing spear lying in succession.
Then the tools of my trade! how grand the sit! The noble pencil, forever in my kit!
The regal inks from lands afar, scarlet and onyx , with myrrh they are on par.
And then it is only a brief tarry, with that little circle of bondage that all women carry, before our journey takes us to me.
What giant arms and giant hands! working back and forth, quick as they can
Across a sea of plastic keys pressing and hitting, what a violent deed!

What drive the gargantuan arms! Why do they work so restlessly on those tiny keys?

Monday, 7 January 2013


Write down your brief writing plan for 2013 (you can expand on it later). Then imagine you have achieved it, and write a few sentences on how this will make you feel. You can keep this with you through the year and read it in moments when you’re feeling stuck and uninspired.

My plan:
1. Every day wake and a vomit my mind at 750 words. Calm my dreams and give them a release in this space.
2. Write for 15 minutes every day while I drink my morning beverage. This I so far have been able to do. Shall make thirty minutes!

If I could do this for a year, oh my god I could forgive myself for not wasting my time or betraying my childhood dreams. I love to be able to move past the stage where writing isn't like exercise, something I must commit time to daily, but part of my natural. An instinct not a habit. Even as I write this, there is the quiet terror: "What if I do this for a year, and produce nothing good?" Mustn't think of such things. Looking at the pages and pages I have made should be satisfaction enough.


When I wake up in the morning, my eyes blink away the toxicity of my dreams. Images of stolen adventures that are not mine, pieces and fragments of a world I do not live in. Lifetimes of love and commitment that do not belong to me. They are toxic if I let them seep over. So with the sleep, I wipe them from my eyes and get out of bed.

My morning routine, who could safely call it pure? The runs I push myself through, the scrolling and clicking as I check the blogosphere. My green tea and my coffee – oh so important in my day -, the certain washing of my face and application of a layer of this, a layer of that. Who so ever would look at these and claim “egoism,” “desperation to connect with others,” “shameless drugs,” and” vanity”, could you call them wrong? Who could look at these and say they are any less toxic than the haunts of my dreams?