fotsun was… mixed. i’m covered in bruises and cuts and everything aches. seriously, my fucking arms hurt from (barely) carrying that esky. i am pathetic. i’m pretty sure i got a cut on my foot that is going to become infected. i got a cut from when i was trying to figure out how to do the thingy to close the toilet, and i jammed my finger in it. i fell over face first in mud!
friday: one word: shit. it was pouring all day and night. we were going to camp but all slowly fell one by one, leaving alanah and loz, which i felt heaps shit about. but seriously, by 10:30, i was ready to die. i do not even know the last time i was so miserable. i was soaked to the bone, freezing cold, lying in my wet (and full of mushed up food, it was so fucked) tent crying as alanah and i had started to talk about our hsc results and oooh, it was NOT good. lots of crying and attempts at reassurance and more crying and alanah dragging me from my tent to the toilet to hippies tent to my tent to the toilet etc etc etc so i missed lior. i don’t have any photos because it was raining. i wish i had some just to communicate how miserable it was. it was kind of a combination of laughing incredulously at the ironic festival of the sun and crying over being so fucking wet and cold. dancing to operator please was pretty good though. alanah and i went to the very front and got ‘pegged’ by max, which made me laugh, he’s a cutie. i love heaps happy and funny drunk people. oh yeah and this was also the night i fell over, while crying, it was so sad. never has a shower felt sooooo good.
saturday: went back and packed everything up and got an alright alanah and an unhappy loz, as well as a lot of wasted food. food shopped and chilled at home with the best friends, it was good. loz ended up leaving, like actually LEAVING, and it only set in later. i miss her already. but we shall both be in sydney soon! i love that girl, undoubtedly one of the most beautiful people i’ve met, i don’t know how anyone could say differently. at 2:30 we went back to sundowners to see the vasco era, and carried the eskies what seemed an epic hike… . also alanah is actually weaker than me… it really isn’t a consolation. the vasco era were great, i love their style and energy. that 1 guy was pretty good too, kind of nine inch nails-ish (i totally expected ‘closer’ to start. that would have been pretty amazing. “i wanna fuck you like an animal, i wanna feel you from the inside” with all the poor little kiddies about). true live, despite the horribly daggy name, were excellent. kate miller-heidke was fabulous, most amazing voice! she is also absolutely gorgeous. the panics were much hyped and late, we were very bitter, but they were excellent. and cuties.
nothing quite compares to gotye last year though, fuck, still one of the highlights of my existence… ‘hearts a mess’ was just profound. all in all it was an experience, and i do love experiences.
my mind is so everywhere right now. i keep skipping between things. like i just suddenly started thinking about poetry then. this poem is amazing… nobody could possibly disagree. i think its what turned me in year 9-ish from poetry hater to adorer. lately i’ve been thinking about poetry a lot, but somehow, i don’t have the heart to write any.
Wilfred Owen: Dulce Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!–An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
i’m afraid to. i love poetry so much but have no faith in my own ability to write it. nothing i do (in anything, really) ever meets my standards… so i’m afraid to try.
“It’s worth millions!” I cried. “Do you know what this is!?”
“Collected spiders, Gila monsters, trips to the Moon without gossamer wings, iguanas, toads out of bad sisters’ mouths, diamonds out of good fairies ears, crippled shadow dancers from Bali, cut-string puppets from Geppetto’s attic, little-boy statues that pee white wine, sexual trapeze performers’ alley-oop, obscene finger-pantomimes, evil clown faces, gargoyles that talk when it rains and whisper when the wind rises, basement bin full of poisoned honey, dragonflies that sew every fourteen-year-old’s orifices to keep them neat until they rip the sutures, aged eighteen. Towers with mad witches, garrets with mummies for lumber-“
He ran out of steam.
“You get the general drift.”
“Nuts,” I said. “You’re bored. I could get you a five-million-dollar deal with Amalgamated Fruit-cakes Inc. And the Sigmund F. Dreamboats, split three ways!”
“You don’t understand,” said Von Seyfertitz. “I am keeping myself busy, busy, so I won’t remember all the people I torpedoed, sank, drowned mid-Atlantic in 1944. I am not in the Amalgamated Fruitcake Cinema business. I only wish to keep myself occupied by paring fingernails, cleaning earwax, and erasing inkblots from odd bean-bags like you. If I stop, I will fly apart. That periscope contains all and everything I have seen and known in the past forty years of observing pecans, cashews, and almonds. By staring at them I lose my own terrible life lost in the tides. If you won my periscope in some shoddy fly-by-night Hollywood strip poker, I would sink three times in my waterbed, never to be seen again. Have I shown you my waterbed? Three times as large as any pool. I do eighty laps asleep each night. Some-times forty when I catnap noons. To answer your million fold offer, no.”
i’m laying this out there: i hate Fahrenheit 451. i found it boring and predictable. i think i kept comparing it to brave new world, which is one of my favourite books. it is just so much more interesting and profound. but ray bradbury is an AMAZING writer. i wish i’d written ‘unterdersea boat doktor’, it is just so unbelievably insane and beautiful- my two favourite things.
ooh, i was looking through stuff i’d done for my english major work last year, i’d done 7 poems about freedom. one was about abortion.
did you know most poems on the internet are anti-abortion? really, really, really bad anti-abortion poetry? it is actually quite sad.
this is one of the few that weren’t, i quite enjoy it.
Marge Piercy: right to life
a woman is not a pear tree
thrusting her fruit into mindless fecundity
into the world. Even pear trees bear
heavily one year and rest and grow the next.
An orchard gone wild drops few warm rotting
fruit in the grass but the trees stretch
high and wiry gifting the birds forty
feet up among inch long thorns.
Broken atavistically from the smooth wood.
A woman is not a basket you place
your buns in to keep them warm. Not a brood
hen you can slip duck eggs under.
Not the purse holding the coins of
your descendants till you spend them in wars.
Not a bank where your genes collect interest
and interesting mutations in the tainted
rain, anymore than you are.
You plant your corn and harvest
it to eat or sell. You put the lamb
in the pasture to fatten and haul it in
to butcher for chops. You slice
the mountain in two for a road and gouge
the high plains for coal and the waters
run muddy for miles and years.
Fish die but you do not call them yours
unless you wished to eat them.
Now you legislate mineral rights in a woman.
You lay claim to her pastures for grazing,
fields for growing babies likes iceberg
lettuce. You value children so dearly
that none ever go hungry, none weep
with no one to tend them when mothers
work, none lack fresh fruit,
none chew lead or cough to death and your
orphanages are empty. Every noon the best
restaurants serve poor children steaks.
At this moment at nine o’clock a partera
is performing a table top abortion on an
unwed mother in texas who can’t get medicaid
any longer. In five days she will die
of tetanus and her little daughter will cry
and be taken away. Next door a husband
and wife are sticking pins in the son
they did not want. They will explain
for hours how wicked he is,
how he wants discipline.
We are all born of woman, in the rose
of the womb we suckled our mother’s blood
and every baby born has a right to love
like a seedling to the sun. Every baby born
unloved, unwanted, is a bill that will come
due in twenty years with interest, an anger
that must find a target, a pain that will
beget pain. A decade downstream a child
screams, a woman falls, a synagogue is torched,
a firing squad summoned, a button
is pushed and the world burns.
I will choose what enters me, what becomes,
flesh of my flesh. Without choice, no politics,
no ethics lives. I am not your cornfield,
not your uranium mine, not your calf
for fattening, not your cow for milking.
You may not use me as your factory.
Priests and legislators do not hold
shares in my womb or my mind.
This is my body. If I give it to you
i want it back. My life
is a non-negotiable demand.
maybe i could be a pro-choice activist; promoting a woman’s right to have an abortion my higher calling. i’m pretty passionate about it.
aaaaand this is the poem i wrote.
Anaesthetic Freud and Dali bubble dreams;
Antiseptic whitewashed, but still soiled and spoiled,
In my bones, in my cells, I hear the silent screams.
I shed my skin, and inside, I am uncoiled,
Breathing: in, out, breath that is grave-cold, grave-dead;
All I have left, stripped of the fruits that I toiled.
I am not pasture, or wood-dead, or red.
I am not your pistil, your pistol, your home,
your castle, your apple orchard, or your bed.
Keep your rosaries and the Church of Rome-
I have fire, brimstone, absinthe, butterflies;
but I am alone with my unwritten tome.
why did i use form? i hate form, i really do, i can’t do it… i just don’t have rhythm! i don’t know if i like this or not. the forced form makes it seem so artificial. i never really like anything i do though. i don’t think i’m very good. it must seem to my friends when i say stuff like that that i’m fishing for compliments… i’m not. i take any compliments with a thank you and whatever, unless i really disagree. i think i’m pretty honest about myself, about the way i feel about myself and others. if i trust you, anyway. i see myself as one of those people who are pretty good at quite a few things (cooking, drawing, painting, writing, making jewellery) but not REALLY good at any one. i just wish i had one particular thing i was just amazing at. i used to think that was writing. but i feel like thats gone, gone before i even turned 18… i hope i find it again, the passion. i hope i can start believing in myself.
i wish i was an amazing artist. i’m ok, certainly not amazing, and i have no patience and resolve. and again, extremely high standards so i’m always disappointed. lately i’ve been looking at all this amazing, whimsical art on deviantart- why can’t i do that? everything i do is boring. i want more imagination. one night i’m going to get trashed and just draw and see what i do. because seriously, every fucking thing i do bores the shit out of me. boringboringboringboring, i’m fucking boring.
i want to do stuff like all this: http://purplepoppies.deviantart.com/favourites/
why am i afraid to go for it? i didnt even go for it for my english or art major works, and i’m miss school! i did boring boring boring.
maybe its because my life is really quite boring. i spent my day organising recipes. tomorrow i’m going to listen to patrick wolf really really really loudly and organise the pantry. oh well, can’t complain, bigger and better things in the future, could be much much worse. i’ll just draw and draw and draw and drawwwww. maybe i’ll take a walk and take some photos. i miss my graphics tablet so badly.
Hey ladies craving Hollywood slim,
Living out of the beauty chic jar,
Get off the fashion treadmill,
You’re beautiful as you are.
this makes me smile so much. it also makes me wish words like this were universally believed, that i believed them. my secret-ish dream will always to be to do something to help girls with eating disorders… the fuck if i know what i could do though, since i have no interest in/ hope of getting into medicine or psychology. well actually i’m pretty interested in psychology but i don’t think i’ll ever be good or passionate enough to get really into it. ooooh i’m going to go read my big big big psychology book. the psychology of eating disorders is one of the most simultaneously fascinating and heartbreaking things. i’ve read so much on them, and my own experiences give me this deep empathy for girls suffering through an eating disorder. i’ve read so much on these girls horrifically deluded and stuck in this cycle of self-abuse and desperation. the pro-ana and -mia culture is seriously fucked… but yet i can appreciate it on some level, i think a lot of the girls really help each other, but there’s so much really bad triggering and perpetuating problems; tips for hiding your starving and purging. but theres also a lot of harm prevention, which is extremely important, especially for bulimics. every part of me wants to somehow be able to help girls in that situation… but i’m seriously so clueless. its actually something i feel this deep, like to the fucking bone, passion for.
maybe i can do it by writing. i don’t know.
i’ll be a chef and i’ll help girls with eating disorders… such a good match.
i never get why people are against harm prevention for things like drugs and drinking, its asinine, people will do illicit and stupid things; why wouldn’t one seek to minimise the risk? denial. maybe i can crusade for harm minimisation.
seriously, i’m just sitting here thinking about all the things i want to and possibly could do… so many possibilities. its more depressing than anything though knowing most of them i’ll never, ever get to. i guess part of the reason i want to be a writer is because, in a way, you get to be so many different things, imagining the world, making up characters, and just throwing yourself into their world and their lives and their heads.
i still haven’t read ulysses. i haven’t read anything. like 30 pages of on the road. i’m going to finish naked lunch tomorrow, i swear. i don’t even know why i stopped, it is mind-blowingly amazingly incredibly insanely the best thing in the world.
“naked mr. america, burning frantic with self bone love, screams out: “my asshole confounds the louvre! i fart ambrosia and shit pure gold turds! my cock spurts soft diamonds in the morning sunlight!””
ha, my taste in literature is so the opposite to the person i (ostensibly) appear… its all drugs, serial killers and sex.
i miss italy chronically.