April 13, 2005

Too few to mention

Fearometer: 8

Adrift in a small town I am aware that I have now reached the age at which I have regrets. The wrecage of previous events in my life still remain where they lay, the corner where something was said, the street where something was spoken of for the last time, the pub where something was left unsaid. I wasn't warned that Id have to participate in life like this- I thought Id be able to sit back nonchalently and admire the cinematography. I didn't realise I would have to feel things, or that a conversation could be so bittersweet. The timeframe I have in this town is different now, I pick up where I left it, like a friendship. But time moves on. I try to keep this place sealed in the past. But it isn't mine any longer. It never was.

March 05, 2005

The face is of itself

Fearometer: 8

What happens is the only thing that could have happened.

Things could be different if you were able to change the tuning on one of the cosmological constant's 100 decimal places. As this eludes you, another option is allowing a meta version of you to live out the course of her life in your mind. They are free from the constraints of time and space and materiality. Occassionally their reality glances yours, you change the course of your life in accordance with a discovery made in their realm.

They never quite escape the background hum of fears and hopes in your mind of course. They are able to soldier on when your writing becomes spider-like and illegible. Although, on the days when the only option is sleep and drawn curtains their image seems to fade a little.

No Cults Please

Dear Guy from Melbourne

I am not interested in your cult of eternal enlightenment or a bloke with a beard and robes enlightening me.

March 02, 2005

Gaps in meaning, like gaps in clothing

Fearometer: 8

Youve been away for a while so you drop by to say hello when you get back. You've not been too far. You just dropped off the radar for a while. And so you drop the odd strap in words and expose something of youself, something memorable or secret so they remember you. And a version of you gets sketched in their minds.

You feel glad that you don't really know who you're speaking to. They dont see the limbs of yours amputated by their viewfinder. You are the author of this self, irresponsible of your charge though you are. You don't have to make it beautiful like art at school. This has no definite borders, you can make it assymetric or ugly, or one day destroy it altogether. You want it to be honest, but you're a liar by nature, and then artifice, there's always artifice.

You feel drawn to this exposure. You create an edifice around it. This definition in words helps to order the fuzz of your thoughts and trap you in the place it inscribes. This is indulgent, in the opposite way that the year in bed was, time away from the defining eyes of others. This is indulgence made thrilling.

February 26, 2005

The secret of all openess

Fearometer: 8

The desire to tell secrets sometimes almost makes you implode. You want to tell anything, to have something to tell is the happiest burden. Most of the time you manage to keep them repressed, in a realm known only to you as you look inwards, free from the gaze of prying eyes. The only difficulty comes when looking in a mirror and the face staring back appears to have them written all over it. So you give up looking in mirrors, not making eye contact with the person who stares back and stand alone, without the company your reflection provides. You can never quite tell if you actually have a worthy secret to tell or if you've just created one in order to have something to throw on the fire that wills you to express them.

With alcohol the barrier between the world of the secrets and the outside world becomes thinned. You long to prove that you are the kind of person who has secrets not just a hollow vessel. The secrets become more unruly and spill their way out into the temporal world. So you try and be the best medium for them you can be as they escape beyond your grasp…You try to push things right to the precipice but keep grasp of them before they fall into incomprehensibility. And somehow once they are told you feel purged but not totally, something always remains behind, soemthing part of the fabric of your inner world, and so never leaves. Something of the secrets refuses to be expressed and eludes you eternally.

The next day you emerge, exhausted and see the secrets now written on the faces of those you told and who were told by others. You read your secrets in every smile and frown and sigh. But yet that impulse which burned in you to tell still smoulders and you know that dormant it will lie untill the next time it makes a path to the surface.

February 24, 2005

Ive been to paradise…but Ive never been to me

Im attempting to compile a list of the most toe-curlingly awful records of all time (as this is a far more fruitful use of time than doing overdue essays). These records are so brazenly bad that they have earned a special place in my heart. I especially adore the ones that make you shift awkwardly in your chair in their sheer naffness. Their beauty is cracked, fragile, grotesque and thoroughly wondeful. Please suggest any howlers of your own, fabulous readers, this lot need company..

Je t'aime moi non plus, Serge Gainsbourg
,The heavy breathing classic, banned by a Britain with no sense of the tragic incompleteness of love, actually a bittersweet admission from a bruised heart of how 'lurve' without feelings is better as you're not vulnerable…hats off Serge, I love you, nor do I

Ive been to paradise, but Ive never been to me, Charlene
Quite possibly the most cringy song on the list. A super saccharine treatment of dark themes, dissatisfaction, domestic abuse and abortion. Yes it is horrible, but with a bleak sort of honesty and a 80's permed sense of hope.

Where Do You Go To, My Lovely? Peter Sarstedt
She sips her Napoleon brandy, but she never gets her lips wet. Sarstedt's subject is a Parisian girl about town with a shady past in the backstreets-quelle horreur. Another heinous crime against music, pervy, perplexing and plain awkward. I can look inside your head- run away run away.

All songs are throroughly recommended and are on DC++, only I do implore you to listen to them with headphones on to preserve any scrap of musical credibility

Yes sir, I can boogie

Fearometer: 7

And so the general sense of unease descends, that no ammount of quarter past one pizza consumption can hold off. Why could I not be an automaton without all of the emotional ticks that get in the way of being a successful, motivated, straightforward person. At this hour the only thing to hold back the oppressive melancholy is Baccara, quite possibly the greatest early Thursday morning euro pop this wonderful world has to offer….and so I dance.

I have as it stands, four essays before the end of term. Consumed by the fear I sit frozen like a rabbit in the headlights of a juggernaught. What's the betting that I still have four to do on the tenth of March? This situation that I dread most I make reality by my fearing it. The stuck record of the fear wears thin on the nerves…I bore myself. Why do I condemn myself eternally to mediocrity…I might have to take a break and go and be someone else for a while. I think I'll opt for Tom Jones.

February 19, 2005

Novelty, ever elusive novelty

Fearometer: 7

What can be said when all that's available are dead words? Everything written is condemned to be a rewriting of whats gone before. Perhaps, one day all of the possible combinations of words will be exhausted and all there will be is deafening silence. That is our aim as we write, to expend more combinations and move things closer to that silence. What can I say when all's been said? Repition renders suffering banal and people will always possess that most laudable capacity- to get bored.

"Promise me you'll never get bored"
"I can't promise that; you wouldn't want me to promise that."

In the first few months, of a relationship you form a language together. At first, this prototype is enough to express your optimism and tentative almost-happiness. However, as underlying emotions begin to shift and complicate and maybe even deepen, the language is not enough to express your changed state. A schism opens up between what you're allowed to say and how you feel. You cling to the grammar you created so as to conceal any inconsistancy which may betray the change which has occurred. Love has bound you in the shackles you had kept for another. You're unable to communicate using your inadequate phrasebook without causing pain.

Slowly you realise that you cannot say anything new to this person.

So one day you end things.

And you go and search for someone new to whom you think you can say anything. Untill, this becomes in-jokes and history, a new language. And then you're full-circle.

February 16, 2005

A many splintered path

Fearometer: 6.5- Stay a pain pin cushion forever

When I was a kid I always assumed that being happy as an adult would be a complete sort of feeling as opposed to my present confusion. Everyone you had ever loved or cared for would be there to enjoy it with you, like a giant living photo montage. You would have the sensation that you had finally arrived.

As I got older, I slowly began to realise however that as life moves on, certain people drift out of view or dissappear altogether, and happiness is just as fragmented by thoughts of what might have been.

Sometimes people drift back in email form which produces an unexpected distractedness all day.

And sometimes this is almost unbearably bittersweet.

Nothing is easier than self–deceit

Fearometer: 6

Whilst attempting to hide from the shadowy figure known as yourself, you can sometimes become addicted to a means of escape which is always to hand- the humble lie. At first your lies are cavalier, thrilling even. You wear them like a masquerade. One white lie or two now and then never hurt anyone. As you tell them, you feel a bit dangerous, as if you're unravelling a fabric which you've tried all your life to keep whole. The fragments of yourself held in the mind of everyone you know now no longer fit together properly and jarr awkwardly.

Eventually you become inured to these small time lies. You move on, creating a whole web of them. Telling them begins to produce a strange sadness in you. Yet you cannot stop. The fissure they have opened up in your reality becomes a strain. You fear that all of their threads will become tangled and incohesive as invented realities tend to do. You forget what was true and what created. Your life is being written by you but you must also be the principle character. Truth begins to seep in as the threads draw tighter, trapping you like an inevitability.

And as you run further from yourself, alone now behind the screen of thread, guess who you meet.

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