Chronic

I spent all the time between Reply Paid and this constructing and agonising over an inordinately and magnificently complicated post. Five pages long, it was. Reaching from light-hearted observations to soul wrenching turmoil, and an array of unfathomable and unworkable emotions in between. Two weeks of sleepless nights and abandoning myself to the page and the computer alike. Screaming matches were held in honour of this post, tears were shed. And much mental anguish was had; I feared I even lost a speck of my sanity trying to deal with the themes of this latest instalment… this awful horrible impassive soul searching screaming indecision deadline evil. I avoided this post, I loathed it; and in the end, it was so thoroughly difficult and convoluted, that I didn’t feel like it at all. I didn’t feel it like I used to, in fact it seemed the moment I wrote my emotions down, they would change, and I was never able to read it back as it had been meant. I didn’t feel like writing it anymore, I only seemed to be adding to this hideous and insurmountable mound of my own shit that I would only have to sort through, and above all, make sense of, later. I was consumed by the idea that if I sorted it on the blog, I would sort it in my real life. But most of all, I didn’t feel like dealing with it anymore.
And so I let it be. I let it escape out the back of my mind and not trouble anyone again. Posterity be damned.
And it was the best thing I ever did.
All the time I would have spent simply avoiding and resenting it; I instead spent absorbing, indulging, living… a far more profound and useful pursuit than agonising over outdated events.
I somehow ended up turning my attention to fleshing out my internet profiles. I started thinking about my hobbies and what I like doing, what I like talking about, things that would be a good conversation topic if you wanted to pick me up at a party, say… And things like all of the great movies I have seen. I love films, and I my mother and I watch the evening movie every night on free to air television. I have seen so many I can hardly remember one that has stuck with me. So I sat down and I tried to remember these films. I paid greater attention to the ones I had seen lately, particularly the ‘American Indie Films Season’ SBS has been having lately. And it all began to come back to me, I remembered films by actors and themes; and there was some sort of joy about being able to get a hold on all the rich culture and things you had seen in your life.
I relished in my obsession with television and fondly recounted things that I watched last night, like a brand new episode of Doctor Who! As well as things long forgotten like Farscape and Moonlight. And I’m happy to note, though it’s quite an effort to find them these days, that I like more British shows than I do American ones, and there’s a few home grown ones in there for good measure too.
I thought about all the books I had read. So very many books. I love reading; and in my unpleasant and excluded years of primary school the little grey bookshelf with the big kids’ books on it was one of my great comforts. I expect that I read, or at least purposely decided not to read, every single one of the books on that shelf. I remember in equal measure the worlds of those books and the world of primary school. I had forgotten so many of them, and a great deal of what one must call my ‘childhood’ with them. The Ramona Series by Beverly Cleary, and also the Ralph Series were like a warm blanket that I could curl up with on the fourth grade bean bag and escape into. They kept my love of literature alive. Books like Helen Keller’s Teacher by Margaret Davidson and I Was A 98 Pound Duckling by Jean Van Leeuwen changed my whole perspective. Helen Keller’s Teacher was just earth shatteringly real and so grippingly unfathomable to me. And with I Was A 98 Pound Duckling I felt like I had discovered something that I wasn’t supposed to know about yet, but it really spoke to me. It gave me validation and a new outlook on things that I had only just come to experience, and it helped form my perception of things that I was yet to experience. It was the defining book for the start of adolescence and puberty for me.
Then there were the books that I had read more recently, such as the Nightrunner Series by Lynne Flewelling, or The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy Series by Douglas Adams – which I am still reading the last of. Classics like Dracula, 1984 and Brave New World that I loved. And even the
Harry Potter Series; the movies, I was not so impressed with; and that’s why despite the hype, I have sworn never to go and see the Twilight movie based on the Twilight series of books by Stephenie Meyer – which I loved so much.
So I had my books and movies, and music which we’ll get to; all pretty standard fields on profiles. But upon registering with Facebook I had noted that they asked for favourite quotes. What a fabulously uncommon and intellectual thing to ask about. So I hunted down some of them. Namely some I copied down ages ago from the school library’s copy of The Penguin Book of Humorous Quotations (or something like that); and some of Dean’s great collection from his blog, some from a page on Gerard Way I got from somewhere, some from recent books and movies, and one I discovered thanks to Musings – which has me looking sufficiently philosophical.
Then I revisited my list of bands that I like… what a list that is. A complete index of every band whose songs or lyrics I have heard and loved. I added anything new, and then set about the tricky and tedious task of narrowing it down to my absolute favourites. From a list of 268 I ended up with 88, which I though was pretty good.
But despite my love of music, it’s not a list I have a chance of actually remembering in real life. On occasion, I will attend a party, and on occasion someone I don’t know yet will talk to me. And, whether the person who introduced us has told them that I’m interested in music, or I have told them myself; they tend to ask me exactly what sort of music I am into, and what bands I like. I don’t view myself as only liking one genre of music, nor do I have any great knowledge of what said genre might include – so it’s not a simple question to answer. I consider myself as liking a great variety of bands and music, but when it comes down to it I can never remember enough bands for it to seem like I do; which leaves me standing there like a blithering idiot who seems either stupid or deceptive. So I’ve thought, you know what? After all that effort I think I might carry the list with me. It seems like postmodernist internet consumer culture gone mad (and to a degree it is) but isn’t that what we’ve become? I don’t suggest taking all the fun out of it, for if it becomes just like browsing a MySpace profile, wouldn’t it be a lot simpler to do just that? But at least this way I’ll be able to give the person a more comprehensive answer (probably more than they expected, but what the hell).
Making these lists has been quite a task in itself, but the greatest thing that I have learnt through all the mental strain of trying to remember all the movies I ever saw; was that only what was worth remembering is worth remembering. I know that sounds strange, but consider your dreams. When you wake up in the morning, only the parts of your dream that you can remember – exist. There’s nothing else to go on, and you just have to trust yourself that you remembered the best bits.
And that was the thought that I had on my mind, together with a quote from So Long and Thanks For All The Fish (“There was a point to this story but it has temporarily escaped the chronicler’s mind.”) when I looked back at that harrowing post tonight. But just briefly, fleetingly; so as not to get sucked into the pit of desolation that it is.
And then I deleted it.
All those wasted words… I had even forgotten what it was about. So many things I know, but… somehow I missed the point. To tell you the truth, I actually just felt like chucking it. But somehow, I had been allowed to see what the story really amounted to; and it amounted to this:

I got scammed out of $380 for a phone from eBay that never arrived.
It suitably ruined my Christmas.
We did all that we could but there was nothing to do.
My losses have been taken up by my mother, ungenerously. And I’m in two minds about that.

We finally settled on accommodation.
I shall have a neat lined timber shed with veranda built in my grandmother’s backyard.
Everyone is happy.
We found a company that we like and that does all that we want.
We will call them on Thursday.

I am going to university.
My acceptance notice came through at about 1o past 9 Monday night, the 19^th.
My end of year score didn’t make a lick of difference, and I received my first preference in the first round for Creative Arts at La Trobe.
I have decided that through all the confusion and indecision with deferrals, money, admission and construction (and believe me, there has been that) – that I will stay the course, and start now.
Enrolment is on Wednesday.

I have a bad hair cut.
A few days back I got sick of waiting for the bitch to grow out and my mother to drive me to a hairdressers or get in the right mood to do it herself; and I took to myself with a razor cutter, (my hair that is, not my wrists).
The mistake was not in the execution, but the intent; and despite all my airs it seems I haven’t the faintest about what actually suits me. Or at least I didn’t at that moment.
My mother was then forced to rectify the situation and I now have something that is; at the same time, not uncommon, strange, or unpleasant – but unmistakably bad in an indefinite way.
Though I can indeed create magic with my curling wand, and with my strange predisposition to like hair cuts I have to fuss with anyway; this suits me fine.

I am happy.
It’s all going to be OK, and I haven’t felt that with such conviction and gratitude in such a long time. Nor has it ever been more important for me to feel that, now, of all times, on the dawn of yet another rebirth in my imperfect existence. I woke up the next morning not knowing what I had done to deserve to feel so unexpectedly and pleasantly happy. So I guess through all of this, in a way I discovered myself; in a more literal sense than is usually necessary for the metaphorical sense. And I did so without even realising that’s what I had been doing. But that’s not even the important part! It’s about not dwelling on all that daft uncertain shit between the facts; otherwise you’ll smack yourself something stupid against the kitchen doorframe in the dark like I just did…



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