Shouting Into A Vacuum

I don’t know if I so much cleared my head as confused myself beyond repair. Its 12:14 AM and I am still doing this since ten to eleven. I don’t know what I just did with an hour and a half, but I came to a point where I had nothing else to do with the other sorting and writing I was doing and I thought, okay, lets blog. Its certainly better than lying in my bed on my back punching it into my phone and not sleeping.

I just finished my comment to Amanda’s latest blog. No its not a masterpiece, no I was not inspired. I just wrote it to tell her that I made a mistake not posting my last one (which was going to be a comment, an email and an open letter on The Shadow Box) but I totally chickened out and learnt my lesson about that. But still, I will not post that letter (or link her to my blog like I later thought of doing) because I know she doesn’t give a shit. No-one does.

If you get back what you give… then maybe exposing more of myself on the internet is the answer.

Or maybe it’s a process, like I said to Amanda in my comment, I think I liked the blogs she wrote before she was getting any comments, when she felt like I did and safe because no-one was listening. They were more revealing, less album-update oriented. Chances are when I try to remember something really good that she said its in the first half of it, which was about when I came across it, half way through. I just wish I could have been there in the beginning and been her comforting first comment. Although she never whinged about getting no comments like I do. I feel like sticking my tongue out at the screen.

The same person who mentioned me in her blog as HER, was also saying how no-one comments on her blog and how she can pour out her heart and soul and know no-one is listening. Its like that. Shouting into a vacuum. A giant hole in cyberspace.

Because of this I have been thinking about all the stuff I have been not writing here. To begin with I could never understand how someone could have a private diary and blog. What I was writing in last years attempt at this was certainly all I had to say. But now as I’m getting into it and beginning to understand it I can see how you could (not that I really do keep much to myself) but there is some. You’re really getting the best of it here, even if I did keep a private paper bound diary it would probably be riddled with all the nasty things I don’t and shouldn’t say anyway. That and lists. I have taken to list writing of late. Practical ones like: Things To Accomplish Today and What To Remember To Bring To Work/Buy Down The Shops. But also ones that I have been writing in my head for years and constantly adding to but never keeping track of like: Things That I Want To Do During My Lifetime (which isn’t actually called that, its simply called THE LIST). The quirkier of which include: play the harp; go snorkelling; visit London; have my picture taken for some sort of practical purpose; appear on “Enough Rope”; participate in a protest rally. Long term things like: design and live in my own house; perform some of my songs to a crowd who is actually interested and have someone comment on blog (ha!). There is also a list of things, people and places that I want to either photograph or take with me to my new house. Oh oh and My Monster List Of Anika’s Song Writing Superstitions. Hilarious. It was the result of another night of bored songless insomnia. I might post that for you one day.

Its now 1:09 AM, I remember doing this sort of time update thing in some letters I used to write to an old friend... I think I will continue this in the morning, uh, afternoon, lest his become another night of bored songless insomnia.

---------------------------

Later

---------------------------

Its quarter past two in the afternoon now. Alone in the house. I feel this is what I should be doing, and feel like doing, but I have drawn a complete blank. Oh, hang on, here’s some stuff I wrote last night on my phone after putting the computer away:

I was on this forum recently (the politics and seedy underbelly as mentioned in the last blog) and I was talking to this person who was telling me something in such a way that I felt like a total kid again. Being told something by a “grown-up” who is obviously older and wiser than you are (I don't actually know how old they are but that’s not the point) I just felt so embarrassed, an idiot, still making the same mistakes of years and years ago, trapped up in just wanting to be loved, liked, popular when I knew what the right thing was. I’m always being quite mature and acting older than I am (I’m not over thirty so I feel fine about this) but sometimes it really comes crashing down, and that was one of those moments. If I’m not missing my opportunity being agonizingly cautious, I’m rushing into it.

(They’re playing “Outta Heart” by Hot Hot Heat on Triple J, I feel strangely emotional and like crying for some reason today.)

Its all over now though, managed to back out of that one with a calm façade and only one person mildly pissed off with me. That’s what performing was like, or giving a speech. If I don’t care about it (like when I had to perform for that bitch of a Drama teacher in high school) then I can convince myself that I am not nervous at all and I won’t even feel it. But if I do care then I am feeling it terribly. I used to think that I never got stage fright, and I didn’t when I was seven. I was the lead role in the Grade Six (yes, this was a big deal then) school production. Somehow (possibly by osmosis) I learnt my lines and delivered them with total ease and expression to a packed hall of all the kids and parents. I didn’t care, I was told to do it and I did it. Stage fright was this giant unfathomable blank to me. What was wrong with the other kids? What was possibly scary? This is just another thing that we have to do, its actually kinda cool we get out of Maths and people come to watch.

The beginning of high school was like this too. In my first year I was the only one who liked “Impromptu Speeches”. Where we all wrote a topic on a slip of paper, put it in a box and then someone picked one out and had to talk about it for a whole minute without pausing or saying “um” or “ah”. I’m not sure when it started, sometime soon after, but I began to understand what it was. I really can’t remember what, its probably some nasty repressed thing. I started to feel sick and unhappy about having to get up and say something. I got the dry throat, the shakes, uneasiness, and emotional sensitivity. I tried to kill it, I hated it so much - this wasn’t me. It wasn’t right, this just made things worse, not only was I feeling those things but I was angry and frustrated with myself for feeling them in the first place.

That’s when I discovered why it was happening.

Its like when you’re 12 or so and you start doing stupid things like climbing 20 feet up a tree. “What? Its really high? Dangerous you say? Huh, that’s fascinating. I really didn’t notice.” That sort of thing. Your parents couldn’t dream of doing such a thing, it would freak them out to no end. But at that age you have no grasp of it and you proceed to climb the tree. That’s what performing had become for me. I had never had parents who were embarrassed about it so I never had it impressed upon me that it was scary, unlike the other kids. So until I got older I never thought about this thing called “humiliation” and consequences.

So, the essence of it is that if I give a shit whether it turns out well or not all I can hope to do is appear confident. I hear this is what a lot of performers do anyway, and apparently I’m not too bad at it. But I still long for the times when I had no idea what embarrassment or shame was, although I wouldn’t want the measly amount of common sense and dignity that came with that. I might look like I’m having fun, but I’m completely ruining the experience for myself. Although I do have a recollection of the event, unlike some people scared out of their minds, the memory turns out hard and grey, with sharp edges and great flashes and lapses in time. As if it were prepared with the sole purpose to remind me how bad it was. Whereas my other memories are golden and rich, full of sequential details, sights sounds and smells.

My mother was right and I hate to admit that. But when I went to meet Amanda I froze. And hence all my memories are tainted. It was a freezing evening and my hands were colder still, I hung my head in veritable shame after trying to introduce myself three times (which no-one did). I passed her my letter with most probably trembling hands, I don’t even know where I was looking, and the picture I get is like trying to draw something from memory, very patchy, distorted and miscoloured. She stroked my arm in a concerned fashion like I needed consoling, which I regret to admit I probably did, and I doubt it was her intuition telling her this, most probably I looked like I was about to burst into tears and run, a bit extreme even for me. I said my few useless words and got out of the way as soon as possible, retreating.

Why am I dwelling on this? I’ve told you this all before.

But afterwards three things were going on. One part of me was going “How frigging cool is this?! I am in the city at 1 AM and people are still up and doing things! Its so pretty and awesome!” and another was going “You, yes you right there, just went, saw and met Amanda Palmer. THE Amanda Palmer. You did it, after all that. Wow, just wow.” but another was going “You shouldn’t idolise her like that. You said you wouldn’t. You psyched yourself out and ruined it. Oh god why didn’t you say something meaningful! Have something better prepared! Why didn’t you take into account that you may not know what she looked like in real life? Why didn’t YOU invade her personal space and get a hug? Huh? Kiss her on the cheek? Stay the fuck around until all the others cleared off so you could actually talk to her? You blithering idiot. You let yourself run and be dragged away to that ugly bar whilst someone else had that moment that should have been yours. Its not her, its you. God I hate you sometimes. I just want to cry about this. Curl up in a ball and let this have me. I can’t deal with you at the moment.”

Lovely. I think I’ve exorcised that feeling enough now. Fortunately the awe of the whole night prevented me from ever collapsing into a pile of tears in the middle of St. Kilda Road. But its… a great example. We all have moments like this and I feel OK about revisiting it so I guess I’m moving past it.

So we can add this to my list of things that give my doubts about whether I can accomplish my dream.

People are coming off holidays soon. I can confront people and ask them questions about things to do with getting somewhere. That should be at least amusing. A tad disappointing, but purposeful. Maybe that’s why this hasn’t moved very fast, I lack purpose. Sums up my life nicely. That might be a good one to add to my list of “Brilliant Debut Album Titles” - “So You Say I Lack Purpose” “Mistakes, Regrets, Lustful Thoughts and Evil Plans.” (think Foo Fighters - Echoes, Silence, Patience and Grace.), “The Bedroom Project” “The Definition Of An Unfulfilled Dream” and some more I can’t remember now.

Anyway, I’m starving.

☆Anika☆