This Existence

I think the lady on the radio is just as lonely as I am. “Call me, text me, tell me what you are up to this afternoon. Send me a picture, leave a message on the guestbook; send me a haiku. Make a request…”
The unexplained comment drought has been hard on me. I gave up waiting for comments on previous posts before posting the new ones; and things must be dire before I have more posts all cooked up before the comments arrive.
I remember thinking a few times, ages ago, when I had lots to blog about and lots of comments and not much time; that I wished I didn’t have so much comments to respond to. Sometimes it bothered me that I wasn’t blogging for me anymore; and that even though I had lots of my own stuff to write about the comments came first. And in those few moments where duty succeeded over sheer enjoyment and felicity; please don’t think that I didn’t like to respond; not for a minute did I feel that, I just felt a responsibility to make a response of some kind, and that takes time. I guess to a degree I was trying desperately not to turn into Amanda, or rather trying desperately to not be a person who made readers feel the way I felt when I commented on Amanda’s blog. I still get the feeling that Amanda writes for herself, almost exclusively; and nothing she says about fans being her friend and her light, nor any brief references to how much she loves everyone – can change this. She has some very altruistic notions; and it is also good to see that she realises her actions do not always match up to them. I think I almost like her more now I dislike some of the things she does. Like I was telling someone recently: I am at peace with our relationship.
And I think the comment thing has made me learn an important lesson about the blogging arrangement. I experienced the other side of it, in a sense; the ‘horde’ that Amanda so tactlessly described, the wall of comments that are nigh on impossible to write something about, because there is nowhere to start. I can see how that could be stifling; and I understand it better now. But it doesn’t stop my morals screaming in opposition and guilt though. I regret every feeling of duty, sure as I regretted it the moment I checked my emails after posting a new blog. I only like my space and my time to a degree, and it’s hard to maintain a degree of purpose and reciprocity, when there isn’t one. I didn’t used to mind blogging when I thought no-one was listening; I thought it made no difference.
But my blog has become so much more than a virtual venting page, a fan’s homage, or a narcissistic journal to myself – and I owe that to all of you. Not to the faceless masses, but to Idril and Musings, and Dean (TimeAALBC) especially; and even to those who stopped by to give me a few words like Max, Corinna, Raef and this girl whose name I can’t remember who was with this lesbian dating agency. I have grown as a person because of all of you and I miss you dearly.

In keeping with the comments/blogosphere theme; I can tell you that I have found Timeandalittleblackcloud – through much apparently ingenious internet trickery and sleuthing. It was nice to find him and chat to him again, out of the blogging context. But every cursory (and not so cursory) remark I make back to my blog makes me feel like a media whore for some reason. I’d very much like him to get what I got out of his blogs. But I’m sure the length of mine has put him off reading. And that’s OK. I think I’d like to postpone that one actually. Tonight I realised how much I had mentioned him in my posts, and I think that’s going to come across as a bit creepy. I’ve had it said and I’ll say it again – I am too much sometimes. Really I am. From just the tiniest difference in perspective I could look like the internet stalker from hell. I guess there is an upside and a downside to sharing so much of yourself on the blog. Downside: by sharing your every whim about people unseen, you leave yourself open to these awkward and garrulous flights of fancy coming back to bite you on the arse. Upside: by sharing so completely and copiously anyone reading enough of your blog can see that deep down inside you aren’t a maniac.


I recently came across this excellent piece of lyrical and lexical joy in the form of The Drones’ ‘Oh My’, my favourite line being “Thou shalt find oneself perturbed by less verbose calamities”. I’m not sure what it means in context, but it’s simply a fantastic line.
All these witty phrases have been pouring out of me of late and slipping away in my absence from the machine. I spend hours trying to recover them and the situations in which I thought of them. And as I have said previously if I don’t write them down all I am left with is the memory that it was the single most profound thought I ever had; and if I do, I lament the effort lost in committing that mundane rumination to paper. Although, due to me writing nothing at all down, the last one is getting less frequent.
I thought it was a good idea the other night, to get out the laptop at midnight and try to blog. But in my muddled state all I succeeded in doing was getting caught up in reading my own words and finally finding out how to adjust contrast in graphics properties…


I guess it bears mentioning that all my exams are over. Things panned out exactly as I said they would, and it doesn’t make me one bit happier about the situation. The exams went really well, and presently I am almost taking it for granted that I have got into university. I have since completed cleaning through all my school things, cupboard and wardrobe in preparation. I may not even have the energy and anxiety to feel like a blessed fool when my results come out. The caravan search does not go equally well. I am trying to track down some sort of separate accommodation for my grandmother’s backyard. She is not aware of this as yet.
We did take a trip to Melbourne to look at a transportable cabin thing; but it was a disappointment. I was surprised that it didn’t ruin my hopes; I instead tried to put my energy into making sure my mother knew that I was grateful for this trip, in the hope there may be more to follow. Seeing grandma was worse though, and the highlight was the blogable spectacle of my mother and I trying to slink out of the house early in the morning before my grandmother woke; like miscreants after a one night stand.

I have been trying to take charge of the whole Uni side of things; the accommodation and all; trawling the net night and day looking for things and racking up a huge bill that is mine alone to pay. I’ve seen some promising things.
I’ve wanted to catch so many trains out of this place.
And I can’t.
The train station is much too far away. The city kids never got this. They never even felt the need for it; between friends’ houses, holidays, parks, shopping… the same way I boggled at the freedom they had and how close together everything is. They got to walk down to the corner store and buy some milk, on their own. I never bought anything or was more then 2 and a half feet from my mother in a shopping complex, until I was 12. I rely on my mother for everything and I am feeling increasingly trapped. I didn’t want to leave on undercurrents of bad terms. On the surface it’s always pretty good; her moods are always so fickle between wine and work. But it’s getting worse. I know I said I wouldn’t talk about this, but it’s hard to ignore, and to tell you the truth I hardly feel a part of it anymore. You wouldn’t believe what goes on.


I’ve been trying to keep myself amused; only occasionally has this worked. I once found myself overcome by the sudden need to inspect the underside of my chair. I am so apt a time waster sometimes I hardly even believe I was there.
I had a highly successful outing to the city, which was wanton, expensive, tiring, and all the things you hope for in a good shopping and visiting day. It left me broke and with a strained ankle, and then I had work – but I couldn’t have been happier. The only pity is that it all wore off by 1 the next afternoon…
Sigh.
Sometimes I think that I am just trying to rekindle the inspiration I felt in January. When my mother had to go to work at 7 and I got up at 5 with her I felt a most indescribable feeling that I guessed was verging on distilled inspiration itself. I felt important and brave, alone but in control and powerful; the house was my house, the silence was unheard. I sat out there on the veranda and watched the sun rise as I enjoyed the clichéd habits of poets before me, like I had done it a thousand times. But the songs never came. And there was no-one to tell. It was simply a celebration of independent artist life, which made me feel alive and yet hollow from deep inside.

Why do people trace patterns on one another’s skin? Somehow it doesn’t seem to fit the situation. An automatic reaction to intimacy, sadness, concern, a playful boredom… and it always leaves me wondering, does it make me a cold person for not being in love? They’re all in love these days. Well, one half thinks they are and the other half want to be. I missed that; (as in didn’t notice, not mourned the loss of it) living in my bubble away from common teenage society. That was the aim of the game back then, and what a game it was. Running around morning and night trying to get someone to ‘go out’ with you; the irony being that nobody really ever went anywhere. You were 12. Kissing was a big deal. I appreciate it for what it was; but for all my wisdom I was still a part of it. You can’t tell a kid that age that there is more to life, there may not even be for that person. I’m even doubting there is. At least the satisfaction of your wanton desires makes it feel a little more worthwhile these days. There are only two things to it, good friends and good sex; and if you’re getting both there is no need to bother with love. Love might be nice and compassionate, but love is hollow and jealous, and love wears off. Ask anyone over 35.
And I guess that makes me wonder if life has made me too cold, cynical and mature out of my very skin. I make no excuses about my sad and sorry opinions; and it is not that I have great past and personal justification for them either. It may be that I have none.
But I just don’t get it.
See, I’m supposed to enjoy running around and chasing my own tail for another 13 years hence. Nay, I still remember being immersed in teenage magazines; which spoke only of body image, boys and the beach for some reason. But I don’t really mind being removed from it, I don’t need to be constantly reminded of the folly of love – television does a good enough job. An endless cycle of desperate women swept up by the promise of romance crying over lost lovers. Do we never get sick of it? I think some people must; but society tries to make them feel bad for doing so. Between Valentine’s Day and the instinct to reproduce; I feel the rational person has no hope.


Lately, I have noticed, that I have increasingly been hanging around topless in my dreams. I think everyone has had a few dreams of shock nakedness, for which the dream annalists will tell you that you feel unprepared for something; but this wasn’t like that. I’ve had those too. When I was in primary school; one moment everything is fine and the next you look down and you’re undressed, and suddenly everyone is looking and you desperately try to find something to cover up with – the subsequent humiliation and panic causing you to wake up. But no. In my recent ones I find that for quite some time I have been milling around in the dream and talking to people with no shirt on. Pants, yes; usually of the nondescript but present kind. But the people in my dreams haven’t tended to mind. Actually I remember in one; after realising I was half naked and pressing my forearms to my chest self-consciously, I saw that nobody had cared to begin with, and I distinctly thought ‘I can’t let them know I’ve only just realised I’ve got no top on.’ And so I put my arms down and continued as normal, all the while smirking to myself with secret satisfaction that I was sitting around with my tits out. I can say that can’t I? It seems a peculiar thing to feel like sharing, but I think it means that I am feeling more comfortable in my own skin, and I am.

I think finally I am getting used to the sound of my own voice. Liking it almost, calling it my own at the very least. I’ve been hearing it in songs, as I plod along comatose through the city streets with my mp3. Today I realised that I went through the seven stages of grief with this thing, the least I can do is lay down to bed with it in the midst of stage seven: acceptance.
I am a textbook case. I had shock, when I was about 14 and the dream really took hold – and the reality with it. I spent a lot of time in denial, hunting out other famous people who couldn’t sing and protesting that I sounded fine. I threw all my energy into bargaining, screaming at the sky, or the devil himself, to take all my other talents, if only for a singing voice. It was in the stage of guilt (at trying to throw away my talents mostly) that I got a singing teacher; put my head down and tried to do the right thing. But I quickly got frustrated and emotional about my lack of progress, failed music course application and her mostly; resulting in a passive, but nonetheless angsty, stage of anger. Which was immediately followed by a lingering depression. And now, through what I can only gather must be divine intervention – I have arrived at acceptance.
I thought I owed you an update on the whole “How goes the singing, how goes the dream” thing. I haven’t even mentioned it for over two months. And I think I am here to tell you that I have let go; that I am at peace. What feels like years ago, I remember telling you that this would happen and that I was ready and willing for it. I said: “I know I will let go of my dreams. I am at peace with the idea that my dreams will die somewhat subconsciously. If that day comes I will welcome the time when I accept something that I am better at as my true calling.” And I have. I don’t know what it is yet, but I have a direction in my Uni course and I’m looking forward to finding out. I’m not sure how that feels; I’m not terribly relieved, nor terribly disappointed. There is an eerie aimlessness and peace through all this boredom and waiting.



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