Silence Without

He: in the cloisters, with open book

2012-01-25T21:17:00.001Z

Monkeyless Cathedrals

2012-01-25T20:23:00.003Z

"There's a monkey holding an orange," she said. "It's supposed to represent the Kingdom of Animals. At least, that's what I'm told."

Back and forth and around and around I searched the windows, paintings, carvings and statues of St Barbara in Kutna Hora in the Czech Republic. Others in my group searched with equal diligence. There was no monkey. Biblical scenes, saints, sinners and martyrs aplenty, but no monkey. I was disappointed.

Stepping inside the Salisbury Cathedral a neat little woman in a green sash honed in on me with a smile. "Would you like a leaflet? It's a little map with a suggested route. In-" her smile faltered. "English? Or...something...else?"

I smiled. "English will be fine."

"The monkey, if you can spot it," reads the pamphlet, "resides high up in the South Quire Aisle, poised to hurl a nut at those entering the Vestry."

Up and down the South Quire Aisle marched I, neck painfully bent and eyes straining to make out the gloomy arches above. Biblical scenes, saints, sinners, martyrs and tombs aplenty, but no monkey. I was disappointed.

There are no bears in America.

There are no monkeys in cathedrals.

Advice to Writers*

2012-01-25T13:09:00.003Z

The showers in this hostel looked decent. Fair sized shower with good space in which to dry off and get changed, enough hooks to hang everything up and hot water that did not run out.

They are their own rooms, however. Not a cubicle door in a larger bathroom, but sealed up like broom closets. A door with no gap at the top or bottom.

And, as it turns out, no ceiling fan.

Once out of the shower and in the steam, I couldn't actually get enough air in, that's how dense the moisture was, having nowhere to go.

I also could not actually get dry. Within seconds of a towel scrub I'd be wet again, not damp, but wet.

Writers: always have a towel big enough to make a dash to your next safe haven.

* And by 'writers' I mean 'everyone'.

Other Nutrition

2012-01-24T21:36:00.003Z

I fell out of a doze and beyond the bus window were fields and slow hills that disappeared into hesitant rain. Green grasses, yellow grasses, lines of vulnerable trees. Fences of wooden beams surrounding barrows. A whole sky. Police tape tangled in a tree's fingers. Winter apples on leafless branches. Crows and pheasants picking at turned dirt. A bemused flock of seagulls sitting among the sheep. Moss and lichen on all walls. School uniforms at the bus stop. The wait staff laughed at my desperation for a cup of tea and beamed at my reaction to lunch. Pedestrians lacking urgency.

New eyes. New breath.

Walking up Milford Street I heard birds.

Think Champloo

2012-01-23T17:04:00.003Z

KONG HEI FAT CHOI. GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI etcetera etcetera etcetera...

There are obvious things that are missed when traveling. Less obvious absences make themselves known over time, when you are unprepared for their arrival.

I miss my clothes. Which is more to say, I am getting sick and tired of wearing the same clothes over and over. Three months of two pairs of jeans and rotating six tops. I miss dressing myself up. I miss looking pretty.

(Anyone who leaves a comment that in any way attempts to assure me that I am pretty regardless will have their comment deleted. Not seeking compliments.)

This does in a way feed into mental well being. Poppy summed it up wonderfully in this post;

"When I sit down and go through the ritual of of painting my nails, doing my makeup and hair, and putting on a pretty outfit, I am allowing myself to feel like I am worthy of spending time on myself."

It is nigh impossible to accomplish this when dragging yourself from hostel to hostel with a limited and purely functional wardrobe. It may be mistaken for vanity, but not being able to put together nifty little outfits and step out knowing that no matter how I feel about my body, my clothes look faaabulous does make it a little harder to feel good about myself. As I am now, with my dino chucks, jeans, and a plain long sleeved tee, I'm pretty mediocre.

I miss having a desk. They're under-valued items of furniture and do not feature in any hostels or hotels. Sitting here in Starbucks eating their wifi, and my hands and shoulders are most unhappy with this table. It's even worse back in the room - not even a table to speak of.

I read on the train today. Perhaps I've been in London long enough to feel comfortable knowing where I am, that I did not have to keep observing those around me or checking the next station incessantly. Fear of motion sickness had stopped me from trying before, but I managed it today without nausea, and it was wonderful. Such a normal, ordinary activity. More than opening a bank account, buying bus tickets and organising my mobile, this felt like an achievement. The first cut in carving out this world and making it my own.

There is fresh milk in England. The continent does not seem to do fresh milk, another little thing I took for granted. There is no sour milk either. Beware of sour milk. You will pass through foreign lands and pick up cartons that look like milk, only to find you have poured something that is most of the way toward being yoghurt into your tea.

In Iceland, do not buy the a + b milk.

In the Czech Republic, do not buy the green cartons.

You have no idea the heartbreak. No idea.

It was not as significant a relief as I expected it to be, to finally be in the land in which my native tongue originates and is named after. I can ask complicated questions and understand complicated answers. Hell, even simple questions. I can read all signs. That perpetual self-conscious embarrassment that I am monolingual and force people out of their native tongue in order to communicate me, so heavy and shameful, now gone!

The price being, I can understand everyone. Everyone. All the time. Now, sitting on the train, waiting for the bus, standing in the Natural History Museum, buying a cup of tea, I am surrounded by the everyday conversations of everyday concerns of everyday people, and I cannot keep all these voices out of my head.

Overwhelmed, and so I am fleeing the city. Tomorrow I'm getting on a bus for Salisbury, and from there to Bath, and from there, who knows. All want is a greater presence of quiet in my world. And then, perhaps some colour, something other than stone in all the shades of civilisation.

I will circle around the west, return to London to pick up my National Insurance Number and bank card, and then make my way north, hopefully closer to a place in which I can stop, and space I can call my own.

Now, Then, and Soon

2012-01-14T20:03:00.003Z

Now I'm behind on video blogs as well as blog blogs and pbbbbbbt I give myself permission to not give a flying fiddlestick.

Now I am in London.

Now I am convalescing. At least, I am trying. This being sick business is utter horseshit. The fever and chills are done, got that out of the way in one night, yet the aches are still hanging around and the weakness, by Belanos, the weakness! Didn't rouse myself til 1 in the afternoon, didn't get out of the house til 3, only walked to the British Library to see da Vinci's scribbles and Brontë's scribbles and Lennon's scribbles and had to had to had no choice in the matter but to sit in a cafe afterward, drink a drink I didn't want simply so I could sit, and it wasn't really sitting it was slumping, and I was addled and exhausted and somehow that made my drink confusing, and twice the server came over to check if I liked the drink. Then I attempted grocery shopping. I was confronted by many types of butter. Brain was unable to make decision.

Now I am ensconced once again in my room, with a near 20 year old black cat with a cataract and I can hear a child crying and I don't think anyone else is home.

Now the business end of my quest begins. No one asked for proof of funds when I entered the country. The immigration officer was perhaps distracted by the fact that after clearing me she would be on break, so she cleared me right quick smart.

Now all the 'deal with it when the time comes' are coming in to land. Such as, if I do not work in an office, what work will I do? With my physical limitations, what work can I do? Am I really capable of winging it or will uncertainty be too much stress?

Now I am tired.

Now I am going to bed.

The 365 Project

2012-01-09T20:10:00.002Z

As with a great many other people, on the first day of the new year I started upon the 365 Project, the purpose of which is to take one photo every day for a year. Which, you know, I'm tooling around in exotic locales, this isn't exactly a challenge.

Posting one photo per day, however...

If you are interested, the photos are going up on my flickr account here.

My own self-imposed rules:

iPhone photos do not count.
The photo must be taken on the day (forgiven if unable to upload on the day).
No doubling up with posting on the blog.

Aural Transport

2012-01-09T17:35:00.002Z

The table is tiny, an old sewing table still with wheel and pedals so I cannot get my legs beneath. The restaurant, 'U dwau Maryí', has only the one patron.

These windows look on the Vltava as it wends through old town Cesky Krumlov. Dark. Freezing. Raining.

This particular peace, breadth of river, infinite rush of water, throws me back to Nikko in Japan, a mere day after the typhoon, lying on the tatami mats and listening to a different breadth of river, a different endless rush of water.

And yet, the same.

Vltava by sirtessa

The Beggars of Prague

2012-01-09T09:19:00.004Z

The beggars of Melbourne are gaunt and bloodless, wearing stained tracksuit pants and the stereotypical visage of a junkie. They shamble, always a list to their posture, and leaning forward to ask you for change, voice nasal and monotone and barely waiting for your refusal before moving on.

The beggars of New York have meat on their bones and less stains on their clothes. They work on captive audiences, entering the subway and narrating their tale of misfortune to commuters over the roar of the track and train beneath. Some of them sing. The majority stand with straight spine.

There are no beggars in Reykjavík.

The beggars of Berlin are small women with beautiful faces and dark hair bound in scarves. They may or may not have a small child with them. They ask if you speak English and present you with a hand-written plea, and follow your retreating footsteps with "please, please, please."

The beggars of Kraków are similar to those of Melbourne, but wear the mien of the alcoholic instead of the junkie.

The beggars of Prague say and do nothing.

The Birds of Reyjavík

2012-01-08T22:27:00.006Z

"Forever let this place be a cry of despair..."

2012-01-03T19:20:00.018Z

It was a beautiful day, such an unnaturally beautiful day.

2012-01-01T13:10:00.001Z

"...(and seemed to confirm Chamfort's dictum that a man must swallow a toad every morning to be sure of not meeting with anything more revolting in the day ahead)..."

— The Art of Travel, Alain de Botton

The Year of Folding Hands

2011-12-31T14:41:00.003Z

I haven't written up an end of year review for a few years now. Things fall apart. My control, or, my sense of control over where I am steering my life has slipped from my grip. A lot of things have slipped, and even more things I have let slide.

In Berlin, in a hostel in Kreuzberg, in the kitchen, with two other travellers sitting behind me, eating pizza they fried because the oven is broken, speaking with Australian voices, from Melbourne, from Frankston. A dorm room full of drunken snores entering in stages. Bad sleep makes itself at home in my joints. These are aches deeper than the dimensions of my body.

There is no quiet, peace, privacy. Alone without solitude. I am run ragged by people I have nothing to do with. They judge me because I do not want a beer, I do not want to chat, I do not want to go out. Not with them.

The people I want to be with are on the other side of the world. I am as far from them as it is near possible to be, and that is my doing. Christmas passed, New Years is passing, summer will pass, and that I have not spent my time in their company is a wistfulness sharp enough to blossom into regret.

I have seen a Southern White-faced Owl, a bearcat moving, Manhattan lights from the Empire State Building, a Gutenberg Bible, Christopher Robin's original stuffed toys that became Winne the Pooh, the biggest meteorite, the Northern Lights, the leaves change in North Carolina, a bald eagle hunting ducks, rats in a New York subway, mice in a Berlin U-Bahn, Nefertiti, the holotype of Archaeopteryx, DNA, the black beach, walked into a glacier, lost myself in medieval streets, stood in the Nuremberg palace where the Roman Emperors would reside, touch bullet holes and the Berlin Wall, watched polar bear twins dunk each other, watched manatees do nothing, touched the ash of new volcanoes, climbed through a lava tunnel more than a kilometre long and 5000 years old, seen shooting stars over the Atlantic from both sides, and bought a train ticket to Poland without speaking English.

I changed medications over and over this year. I had tests, I failed tests, I lost hope. I was passed over for permanent position for the job I was in three times. I moved back in with my parents and sacrificed my kingdom. I was told therapy couldn't help me. I did not write. I did not read.

I found friends. I misplaced friends. I found lovers. I refused lovers. I was a good friend. I was an unreliable friend. I was a useless enemy. I hurt, and was hurt in turn.

Church bells, ambulance sirens and free-range fireworks are the soundscape of Berlin.

I have left my job, and my home, my family, my dogs, my friends and lover. I have left the city of my heart. I have left everything I knew, and knowing everything I know, threw myself into everything I didn't know.

There is not so much different here. There is not enough different here.

When running from yourself, there will never be enough distance.

It has just gone midnight back home. My heart is in pieces scattered in a handful of individuals so far from me, in a different year to me now. Moving on without me. That is what life does. It keeps going, whether you keep up or not.

So many hands have been folded to get me where I am, in a position may would envy. I am told I am brave, when people look at what I am doing, but I am not. My demons simply come from other angles, and I am running and running and failling to escape them. So many hands folded, in external pragmatics and internal commerce. I am so compromised I no longer know how to define myself. There is no way to identify what is of my own making and what has changed because of medication.

I know I should be enjoying myself. I know I should be exuberant, wild-eyed with curiosity, delight and horror. I know the sight of snow on those plains should have brought me to tears. I know standing on a railway platform at night should be an event to record, remember, in every country. I know I should be learning, learning, learning, soaking drinking saturating myself in the world around me, for all these contrasting details, all these mundane little surprises, all the earmarks of my ignorance and all I have yet to learn-

But I am not, I do not.

New experiences and learning were to feed future writing. Without that purpose then what I experience has no point nor potency. This is an awareness I cannot shake. There is no purpose I can assign to my existence. It is all time wasted in agonising seconds.

I am tired.

I am here because I could not be at home. Now I find that I do not want to be here, and I know of nowhere else to be.

May 2012 fear you, respect you, and treat you with kindness.

<3

3 set free, 1 imprisoned

2011-12-30T20:34:00.007Z

Burnout - Rebecca Donner & Inaki Miranda

From DC's Minx line, comics aimed at girls. Coming of age story, girl with broken family starts up with a new broken family. Decent, but pieces of emotional development felt forced for the sake of the story. Art work palatable. It was exactly what I needed when I bought it, something to dive into, that would not challenge me greatly, and take me out of myself. I release it to the wild (aka, the book exchange shelf in the hostel).

Julius Knipl, Real Estate Photographer: The Beauty Supply District - Ben Katchor

Had I been in a less fatigue-faded state of mind this book would have tickled my absuridism gland into hysterics. Each page a single piece, a sliver of story, or a train of thought before it is derailed, of strange and pointless things that are given accolades and attention. As it was, however, I am tired and more than a little misery prone, and all I could see in the pages was wasted time, wasted lives, mundane small narrow pointless useless valueless worthless. So I closed the covers, and I set it free.

Lori - Robert Bloch

A reprint of a book originally released in 1988, I bought it because I confused the author with Lawrence Block. So. My mistake. Riddled with typos, a plot that made no sense, and shit characterisation. Shit. Like scrotum. Did I mention the plot made no sense? And talk about forced emotional development. UGH. MAKING MASSIVE JUMPS TO CONCLUSIONS LIKE GRASSHOPPAAAAH?! If the book had a face, I would have punched it. Except I am not violent and it does have a face and I respect books, so I did not punch it.

Setting this fucker free. I pity da foo' who picks it up.

The Ganzfeld #3

This, I am keeping. The magazine has since been discontinued, which is a shame. It was full of wonderful odd angled articles that, to me, shared a common focus on examining a point of wonder. Not all wonder is good, nor enlightening, but it is all wonderful and interesting. Particularly taken with the piece by Rick Moody. This was included in the box I just sent home.

All items bought for half price at Modern Graphics, a fabulous comic shop in Kreuzberg. Found it completely by accident. Solid range of German, French and English books available. If they're open tomorrow I may have to go rummage some more.

The 3 free books are going on the shelf at Baxpax Kreuzberg.

I am tired, and although I have barely pecked at the surface, I confess I do not feel any great need to explore Berlin further.

2011-12-28T15:31:00.001Z

"Of death and epiphany together, let us say nothing. That's the space of the romantic, and the romantic always features an especially high body count."

—Canon, Rick Moody, the Ganzfeld #3

And yet without decoration.

2011-12-28T12:00:00.000Z

The Neues Museum was born from the destruction of the old. Bombed in February 1945, the greatest of treasures were safely hidden in the zoo, and all else was incinerated and crushed.

The old museum lives in the new, with salvaged pieces of ornamentation pressed into the walls where they would have been, surrounded by new and blank plaster, so that the ghost of that majestic hall lives superimposed in splinters and fragments over the present day.

There are bullet holes in the walls that did not require replacing

The story is not only in the contents of the rooms. The foundations have memory.

little lights, a little light

2011-12-24T21:27:00.003Z

I went walking, and found a little galaxy. I took a slice of time and froze it into a visual representation, which I then converted into 0s and 1s, and now I am putting it here, for you.

The Responsible Adult

2011-12-23T13:44:00.001Z

That's the mark of a true adult; total responsibility for self. It is a mostly exhausting process, sadly, and much of the time the rewards feel few and far between.

This isn't a reward as such. Traipsing about the world is an incredible luxury. Awareness of this cannot and should not be undone, and the opportunity not taken for granted.

At the same time, the only person responsible for me is me. I make my own decisions, pick my consequences and get to choose which regret to live with.

Tessa, come Boxing Day you will have been traveling for 2 months, the longest you've ever gone, and there is no known end to this. You were not at full capacity when you left home, and haven't operated on such for too long. To this journey you've assigned some purpose. There is something you need to prove, but what, and to who, you do not know.

You are not as strong as you think you are. It is okay to admit that.

While in Berlin, I give you permission to do nothing. Go out and tourist your little butt off if you want, or stay in the hostel dozing on the couch between cups of tea and look only out the window.

Ask nothing of yourself. Test nothing. Challenge nothing. Be nothing.

And maybe we'll get through this.

Some Rothenburg ob der Tauber, and those Nürmberg drunks I mentioned earlier.

2011-12-20T08:17:00.003Z

There was a soccer match on the other day. Footy fans and drunks - these are things that Australia and Germany have in common. Unfortunately.

Small hours on a German station, MAKE VIDEO BLOG

2011-12-19T18:40:00.004Z

If you're going to watch any of these stupid videos of mine, watch this one. The South Coast of Iceland is just gorgeous, the little glimpses provided in here don't even give you a taste.

While I was standing inside the glacier I took my glove off to run my hand over the ice, and started laughing, as I do when something delights me.
"It's dry!"
"Yes," said the Dutch Man still lingering. "It is ice."
"Yes, but it's dry!"
He nodded, and stated again, a little slower, "it is ice."
There was too much of a language barrier between us for me to explain that where I come from, no ice stays dry.

The Perils of Hosteling

2011-12-18T09:35:00.004Z

There is no microwa- THERE IS NO MICROWAVE IN THE KITCHEN?! WHO DOES THAT?

There are three beds in my room. The other two are taken by a couple of German guys.

I have to admit, even though I try to be chilled and non-judgmental about exactly that sort of situation, I raised my eyebrow. Most hostels are all for keeping the sexes separated, which I imagine just saves everyone a whole lot of potential hassle.

Eh, I told myself, eh. Do not be uncomfortable unless they give you a reason to be uncomfortable (although I did grumble about the idea of having to leave the room every time I wanted to get changed, pfffft).

They reeled back after five in the morning, giggle-drunk and trying and failing to be quiet with such ridiculous earnestness I had to hide under the doona so they couldn't see me laughing at them. These boys, they be okay. Getting home so late was a bonus, I got some alright sleeping done.

When I woke up, I had to punch down a laugh again. Drunks do not know how to drive doonas. The guy opposite me was face down on the mattress, with one corner of the doona bunched up around his face and the rest thrown on the floor. He was only in his undies. I was tempted to take a photo. The other guy had managed to keep the doona on the bed, but he had wadded it up and was spooning it. Also only in his undies.

In this situation, I am the menace.

In the key of Nürmberg Durnk

2011-12-17T19:22:00.016Z

Free wifi is awesome, but generally not made for heavy use. The wifi at the Rothenberg hostel freaked out at any sort of uploading, and the wifi here in Nürnberg bitchslapped me hard when I tried to upload another video bloq. Hopefully the hostel in Berlin is a bit more forgiving, otherwise you'll just have to be patient.

At any rate, when I left the hostel this morning it was to discover that a lovely dusting of snow had stopped by over night, making a ridiculously pretty town even prettier. I cursed it a mean streak while schlepping my stuff to the station.

No snow in Nürnberg, still cold enough to warrant my rabbit hat and scarf. (The downside to wearing a real fur hat, I have discovered, is that should you wander about in the rain, it will begin to smell exactly like wet animal. Gross.) I made an effort to go to Albrecht Dürer's Haus, as there is only one guided tour in English per week, which happened to be today. I was initially somewhat wary to discover it was a costumed guided tour, being led by Aqnes Dürer, Albrecht's wife, but those doubts proved entirely unfounded. "Aqnes" was exceptionally interesting and informative, without ever being twee.

Because I forgot to eat for 12 hours (THIS IS WHY I SHOULD NOT TRAVEL ALONE) I didn't have presence of mind to do any filming in the house. Poot. Managed some okay photos though.

This is a reconstruction of Albrecht's printing press, a reconstruction made possible as he had made a drawing of the press with such detail that it was practically a plan with measurements and instructions. The press is capable of exerting a ton of pressure. Which is alarming, to be honest.

One ton of pressure makes a pretty crisp print.

LETTERS. See that font? I can hear all the hipster designers of the world turning their pity and condescension on. HE'S THE MASTER, NOT YOU.

There was also a copper etching press set up, which was being used to create prints. They'd done up copies of Albrecht's more renowned images, which you could purchase signed by the printer if you so desired. A copy of a copy? I eyeballed the rhino - I have a great fondness for that rhino, but passed.

Albrecht is well known as being the first to do a sort of realist study of nature. This cabinet was full of bits and pieces from the wild; here a deer, beneath deer antlers.

Jars of pigment powders. The process necessary for obtaining some of these colours was staggering. To be a painter was a luxury, I must say. 8,000 sea snail shells from around India for a gram of puce-like pigment powder to be bought in Nürmberg.

There was a massive print of a medieval map on display, to show where the various ingredients for pigment powder were obtained. Australia did not exist as an idea at this point, and the Americas were only a vague line down the left. China did not appear to be well known, but I was surprised to see "Thebet" present.

Afterward I wandered around in a haze of low blood sugar. Nürmberg is a farçe of both the old and the modern.

Christmas Disturbia

2011-12-16T19:04:00.003Z

Rothenburg ob der Tauber. Famous for its Weihnachtsmarkt, or Christmas markets for the non-Deutsch speaker. Also a very very ridiculous place. It's a complete medieval town, and dude, wtf. It's like walking around a gingerbread city, or a fairytale. It's like Sovereign Hill, ONLY IT IS REAL (little Victoria reference there).

They take Christmas seriously here, and today I went to the Christmas Museum, which is housed in a MASSIVE INSANE LABYRINTHINE MANDELBRÖT Christmas decoration store. I mean massive. I qot lost. Several times.

I stole a few fantastic photos, but unfortunately the connect at this hostel does not like uploading, so I'll restrict pictographs to only this.

HOW MANY EYES DO SNOWMEN NEED?!?!?!?!

OH LOOK A DOG

2011-12-15T17:32:00.002Z

Whilst reeling about Rothenburg ob der Tauber this afternoon I happened across possibly the cutest little mutt in the world, and I say that knowing that the dogs back home are the cutest dogs in the world. He was part Dachshund, have that long body, short legs and a fairly lean muzzle, and wiry haired, which I've never seen on a sausage dog. Had the sort of colouring of a German Shepherd, you know, the black saddle and brown trim. AND HE HAD A RIDGE BACK. Seriously, from the top down he was massively shaggy, but then everything but his roof was short-haired! And he was trotting along with his low belly being quite amiable and cheerful and sooooooo CUTE.

I miss my doggles.

Oh. Dear.

2011-12-13T23:59:00.001Z

LOOK IT IS OKAY ALRIGHT I REPLACED THE LAXNES BOOK WITH ANOTHER ONE THIS ONE RIGHT HERE

AND I TRIED YOU KNOW I REALLY LIKED NAKED LUNCH BUT THE SOFT MACHINE JUST WASN'T DOING ANYTHING FOR ME I MEAN ME AND BILL BURROUGHS WE GET ALONG ALRIGHT BUT THIS SOFT MACHINE JUST WASN'T MAKING ME LAUGH THERE WAS NO DARK COMEDY OR ABSURDISM WHICH REALLY JUST LEFT ME WITH A LOT OF SEX AND VIOLENCE VERGING ON TORTURE PORN AND I DON'T REALLY LIKE THAT SO I STOPPED AT CHAPTER 9 AFTER HE THE NARRATOR WHOEVER HE IS HAD JUST FINISHED HIS MISSION HAVING GONE BACK IN TIME TO MESS WITH THE MAYAN PRIESTS AND THEIR MACHINE AND SO SETTING IN MOTION THE MAYAN CALENDAR AND THE COUNTDOWN TO THE END OF THE WORLD WHICH IS INCIDENTALLY NEXT YEAR

Caving! In ancient lava tunnels! Holy Magma!

2011-12-11T19:26:00.003Z

Summary!

I am tired.
It was dark.
I am tired.
Ice is insane.
I am tired.

In addition, a sound clip I took while alone. That manic hiss is simply my poor old iPhone, unable to process the quiet.

1350m long lava tunnel, the sound of rain underground. by sirtessa

This isn't so much a self-portrait, as that term implies some sense of purpose, a point to that particular portrayal. This is one of those CHECK THIS OUT photos. My hair isn't wet. That's purely sweat.

A window in Vík, post-sandwich

2011-12-10T20:59:00.003Z

sun so slow to set

2011-12-08T14:02:00.002Z

Ólafur Arnalds - Live in the Lobby

2011-12-07T22:42:00.004Z

As part of Live in the Lobby, a series of free concerts hosted by the Reykjavik Downtown Hostel, Ólafur Arnalds played a neat little set, and BY JOVE, WAS I EVER IN ATTENDANCE.

Setting up for Live In the Lobby in Reykjavik. by sirtessa

Accompanying him was a string quartet, and unfortunately none of my photographs of them are worth sharing. Tragedy, as they were glorious, and there really is nothing that can be compared to listening to stringed instruments being played live and perfectly.

In the music I could hear the landscape I beheld yesterday. I could hear the supreme absence of trees, bushes, shrub and growth, I could hear a land in which a note will never die, the wind will carry it on and on over the snow dunes and gracefully languid hills, with nothing to break it, and perhaps nothing to hear it.

They are scores that are stripped down to the bone, so reflecting that vast emptiness of the tundra. Perhaps Iceland could be captured by a full symphonic orchestra, but...that, to me, feels like too much. Too crowded. Too many voices, in a land that is voiced by only a few. Great voices, such as the sea, the endless wind, and grumbling volcanoes, great, but few. Not necessarily lonely, but lonesome none the less.

Having not seen Iceland in summer, I have to wonder how it would present itself in music.

Sublime; then disintegration. #liveinthelobby #olafurarnalds by sirtessa

An outsider's impression. I am projecting into the music.

I would have gladly payed for tonight's concert. Arnalds's music can be found at Erased Tapes (site down at time of writing) and BoomKat. If any of you have been curious as to my type of music, this is a prime example of what has been speaking to my heart of late. Should any of you be in town, he and the string quartet will be playing another concert at Harpa on the 17th.

Takk.

Sir Tessa accidentally all over the concept of video blogging. Whoopsie.

2011-12-07T15:50:00.003Z

In summary;

My hands are not cooperatinq enouqh to bloq reqularly or edit all my photos
There are videos from the Qolden Circle around Reykjavik
I have a hat

PEACE OUT, YO.

Icelandic Phallological Museum

2011-12-05T22:27:00.014Z

After discoverinq that some scabbinq monqrel stole half my loaf of bread and all of my oranqe juice, I had a very anqry cup of tea, followed by very anqry toast, and then I set off into the snarky winter air to visit the penis museum. Anqrily.

It isn't a very biq museum. 1000 ISK for adult admission, and loan of one cataloque of specimens in the lanquaqe of your choice. The exhibits to not attempt to educate you on the use of the penis or any particularly odd sexual behaviours of animals around the world. It is simply a room stuffed full of penis.

So much peen.

The photos I took are not particularly qood, due to a combination of indoor liqhtinq and awkward display cabinets, but photoqraphy is not at all the point. The point is penis.

That is not penis. That is testicle. Two of them. From homo sapiens. Accordinq to the cataloque, it is,

Both testicles and epididymis from a 60 year old Icelander. Donor unknown. Autumn 2006.

It is somewhat alarminq that they can have a set of balls and not know who they are from.

I...think...this is boar dick? I could be wrong?

This is definitely boar penis. Artistically mounted on a rock, and risinq up like either a charmed or extremely pissed off snake.

So much peen. Those wee ones at the front are rat penis bones.

Mink penis. I'm not sure what that...thinq...in the middle jar is.

Alarminq mink penis.

Cat dick. Although small and meek, definitely the most threatening dick on display.

Doq penis. And penis bone. From fluffy doqs.

Some impressive horse cock. And a phallusesque lamp.

Arctic fox peen. Many arctic fox peen.

The smallest exhibit, at less than 2mm, a hamster penis bone.

So the owner and curator also makes lampshades out of bull balls.

Here's a close up of the bull ball liqht shade, for your consideration. If you're interested you may buy your very own bull ball lamp from the shop for 15,000 ISK.

Here is a close up of a cross section cut of a sperm whale penis. Rather fiberous lookinq.

Mounted whale penis. On the left, a killer whale. On the riqht, a Fin whale.

Look at that chubby. Sperm whales, man, they're all about qirth. I mean, really.

Yet more mounted whale penis. Sei and Fin whale aqain. Qood thinq they're up hiqh. Could take someone's eye out with those thinqs.

Badly cured sperm whale. I couldn't quite tell if this was an attempt to treat whale penis for leather.

It's a qiant sperm whale penis. It is taller than I am.

No, really.

Minke whale qot a chubby.

That hurts to look at. Poor Sei whale. Qlad he was dead before that happened. (Well, I'm makinq an assumption there.)

Perch peen. Yes! Fish peen!

Hell, I don't know, lots of peen.

HOLY HAMMERHEADS, THAT'S A WALRUS PENIS?!

Polecat penis bone is somewhat alarminq. The hook is entirely unnecessary, really.

As for skunk penis bone, that isn't a hook...I don't entirely fiqure how that works.

A little something from home; wallaby penis!

The 2008 Icelandic Olympic Handball team! Silver medalists! YES. SILVER PEEN. A WHOLE TEAM OF SILVER PEEN.

The last section was a little room off to the side, in which was a cabinet of phalluses relatinq to Icelandic folklore. In this jar is the phallus of one of the Hidden People.

Catafox penis in the front, and Sea Howler penis in the back. I'd howl if there was a hole in my dick too.

Shadow-hound penis. Not at all like dog or fox penis.

A merman penis. The cataloque stated a fisherman had a spat with him, and he came off the worse.

Now, I realise that is a funny lookinq penis, but to be honest, I'm more intriqued by the owner. What is a 'rustic' elf? Does it sit around on old farm porches with tin cans waitinq for Donna Hay to come by?

I refuse to qooqle 'enrichinq beach mouse'. The mystery deliqhts me.

Damn riqht it's a troll penis.

QHOST PENIS.
AAAAHHHHHHH.

I'm not qooqlinq 'necrophlaqic cat' either.

I saw more penis than you did today, and I'm willinq to bet money on it.

Also the museum smelt funny. Not of formaldehyde, althouqh no doubt that contributed. There was a definite MUSK odor in the air.

If that was too much cock for you, here is a pleasant chaser;

Aqain, the view out the front door, taken around 1.30 in the afternoon. There is nothinq but lonq liqht in this place.

Oh so THAT is -6 degrees.

2011-12-04T18:10:00.003Z

Extremes take it out of you. Extreme cold is just as exhaustinq as extreme heat, the only difference beinq cold is far more insidious a leech. I traipsed about town all ruqqed up and apart from my thiqhs was perfectly warm and cozy, and barely lasted an hour, half an hour, between wantinq to find somewhere to sit out of the cold for a bit.

I've walked to the station on Melbourne winter morninqs and had my ears ache, and considered that quite a cold morninq.

Imaqine that sharp freezinq ache takinq up your whole butt. To the bone.

Totally wearinq my thermal leqqinqs tomorrow. I'm sittinq on a heater riqht now, and have been for the last half hour, and I'm still waitinq for my bum to come back to me.

Utterly exhausted. Pleased, but wrecked. Flruqle.

ICELAND LAND OF ICE

2011-12-04T09:31:00.006Z

HOLY MOLY I AM IN ICELAND ICELAND ICELAND.
THIS IS VERY EXCITING.

Landed at 6 in the morning, and it was full dark. To say the land was covered in snow, or that snow blanketed the land, or any other number of clichés would be correct but not fitting. THERE IS SNOW EVERYWHERE.
EV
ER
EE
WHERE
Which, for those of you who live in northern climbs is not such a big deal BUT I AM AUSTRALIAN AND THERE IS SNOW ON ALL THE THINGS.

The bus from the airport dropped me at my hostel around 8am, which is far too early for check in. I was more than happy to collapse on one of the many couches available for just such a purpose, but as it turns out, the dorm room I'm staying in is empty. Huzzah! So I was checked in right away. Huzzah! And it is still empty apart from me. Huzzah!

I really haven't done much of interest apart from locate a supermarket and acquire a power adapter (because yes, I managed to enter the country without one before hand, smart move asswipe). Exploration of Reykjavik is for today.

Here is a little taste of what is in store. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the view out my window;

And this is what greets me upon stepping out the front door of the hostel;

YES REALLY.

Nothing opens until 10am, which given my general attitude toward mornings, makes this country tailor made for me. Time difference saw me wake at 4. It is now 9.42 in the A of M, and the sky is only starting to get light.

2011-12-02T05:32:00.001Z

Due to the fact that I am stupid, and don't trust myself, and am easily confused by dates, I have missed my flight to Iceland.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

EDITED TO ADD: $900 later, and I am on my way.

Kids. Don't do this at home.

Muppetational!

2011-12-01T03:55:00.006Z

There are far too many things to do and wonders to see in New York, more than is possible to consume in any length of time. Thus, I have resigned myself to the foregoing of much memory treasure, but I was not going to let slip the Jim Henson exhibition currently on display at the Museum of Moving Image.

It was brilliant. Amazing. And, in keeping with the strong and irreverent spirit of all Jim Henson's creations, it was hilarious. There was a delightful sense of play in all the ventures that Henson pursued, whether or not they ever saw the light of day.

I could not help comparing it to the Tim Burton exhibition, which I saw while it was showing at ACMI. While Burton did branch out into various media, I walked away with the impression that his aesthetic had gone through very little metamorphosis in his many years of work. It is an aesthetic that has become an incredibly strong brand , however without development it does not seem as though the artist has challenged himself.

Henson had also maintained a strong identity through his aesthetic, but this was coupled with a drive to innovate, and as such his work throughout his life has about it a consistent freshness that I did not see in Burton's collection.

Did you know that earlier incarnation of the Cookie Monster was “IBM Monster"?

No photography was allowed in the exhibition, and there were 3 portly security guards patrolling to make sure that all enforced. However, because I am a ninja I did manage to sneak some photos on my phone, and these I share with you.

The below is part of a concept that did not go ahead. When I read it I was aghast. Irreverent and playful his works may be, some of them are down right horrific.

Dr. Bredlow Freedly is the Muppet scientist who invented MEL (short for Malfuntioning Electronic Logician). Freedly attempts to demonstrate the newest use for this mechanical marvel -- first, the machine will inhale our polluted air. It will then condense the smog, fumes and filth into handy little cubes for shipment to the less industrialised countries of the world. (Zounds! We'll make a fortune!)

Behold! The Mahna Mahna!

In the light of recent events I found this quote to be topical, to say the least.

For reasons... Wait, no. I think I just figured it out. Bert always put me in mind of a banana and I think that is because he is wearing stripes, and is yellow, with a pointy head, just like a Banana in Pyjamas.

He always reminded me of cricket too. Because of the sweater.

Mum used to call me Oscar the Grouch. No idea why.

ROWLF. (That blue elephant thing that appeared in the rerelease in Jabba's palace ain't got nuffin on Rowlf.)

The frog himself; Kermit.

(This was the hardest photograph to get, unsurprisingly.)

On the same floor was a display of the history and evolution of the television. Some of them looked like works of fiction, as opposed to works from the past.

And then, tucked up very back in the corner, were a few little special effects props from various notable films.

And I flipped THE FUCK out when I realised I was standing in front of the Tyrell Corporation ziggurat. “My mother? Let me tell you about my mother-"

If ever there is an open house tour of the ziggurat, behind-the-scenes may possibly and unexpectedly look a little like this:

In another corner it was a setup which allowed you to create your own stop work animations. Unsurprisingly I made many. I think we spent about half an hour faffing around with these.

The Museum of the Moving Image is not large but holy schmoly well worth the time travel.

Later, I was taken on a passing whim into the FAO Schwarz shop, which is a massive and magnificent toy store. Very, very dangerous. You have been warned. Especially given what is located in the back of the sweets section.

The Muppets Whatnot Workshop?

Oh hell yes I did.

Did an awful lot of trying out eyes and hair, but eventually a decision was made and I signed for my very own muppet with a fluffy fancy pen.

Fred & the Beagle

2011-11-29T01:34:00.004Z

The VanderMeers took me on an excursion to the St Marks National Wildlife Refuge, for a 5 mile hike through the wetlands. It was perfect, and I could go on at length about the beauty of the park and flood you with too big, badly edited photographs, but instead I am going to share one incident.

We were walking by the larger lake, watching a clique of ducks set out from the shore. Tubby little black birds, they moved as a very tightly huddled group. Our comments scrambled mid-sentence as a much larger bird came flying in low to the water, a deep wingspan and shining white head.

"Is that a-?"

"That's a Bald Eagle!"

And not just a Bald Eagle, but a Badass Eagle (hereafter referred to as "Beagle").

Defying the laws of physics and matter, the ducks drew even closer together as the Beagle strafed over them. They paddled about in a panic, the flock splitting to confound the Beagle then unifying as the Beagle drew up for another pass. The Beagle hovered and feinted a couple of times, but the ducks remained united.

Except for Fred.

Fred decided to stick it out alone, and the Beagle figured if Fred was goinq to make things easy for him, he was okay with this. The Beagle dove down at Fred! However, Fred was a canny duck, he was all, "AHA! You shall not catch me!" and dove under water.

The Beagle, who was old hand at all this, was all, "Whatevs, you're gonna come up for air soon," and without further waiting the Beagle plunged into the lake.

Where, it must be said, he floundered about not at all unlike a graceless chicken, to the point I turned to ask my companions if he was in fact stuck and goinq to have to wade over to the shore to get out.

I did not give the Beagle enough credit. With his mighty wings he broke free of the water.

With Fred.

Nature is badASS.

"I'm not sipping on tea while typing this eating crumpets."

2011-11-24T03:54:00.004Z

Earlier in the year I created a profile on that notorious dating site OkCupid, not because I was looking for anything, but because a friend of mine who shall remain anonymous told me a hilariously wrong bad not good story of a fleeting interaction she had on the site, and I just had to get me some of that.

Online dating gets a bad rap from the older generations. We still don't understand that society is online now, it is normal to meet and make friends online, and have them be genuine and true. It's no longer a weird or even shameful thing to have met your partner online. I've actually had a fantastic run on the site, I've met genuinely awesome people who I have kept as friends. Ace? Ace!

That said, I'm on it for the people watching. Below is a selection of messages I've received since changing my location to the US of A. I have responded to none of these. Some of them are examples of what not to do, some of them are "WTF?", and some of them are just plain amusing.

The next two are a single message.

The next two messages are from the same chap, one after the other.

I am a bit of a Bitchface McBitchy for putting these up for mockery, I know. I do acknowledge that a great many people dipping their toes into the world of online dating are looking for something specific, as opposed to just looking, and for those people this is Serious Business and therefore they are taking significant risks with their heart and happiness by putting themselves out there.

Good for you. You know what you want, and your out there getting it.

Keep a sense of humour though. When it comes down to it, there is nothing about dating that isn't funny.

Dear Winston-Salem,

2011-11-23T21:36:00.001Z

Footpaths. They're a thing.

Regards,
Sir Tessa

Parkway

2011-11-23T03:13:00.003Z

Today I went strolling with a friend and his canine companion in the late afternoon, beside a creek and under the interstate. There was gridiron training, and children with sticks, and robins, and clean air.

Noble Cognition or Constipation

2011-11-22T19:07:00.002Z

2011-11-21T16:30:00.000Z

Big Ol' Pile o' Panda

2011-11-18T21:35:00.002Z

I completely failed to see anything of San Diego while I was there, and so don't really count the city has having been visited. Did, however, put aside a whole day for the zoo, which was so completely and utterly worth it, and maybe I should have put aside two days, because there was a lot of beasties I didn't see even though we tore arse around the zoo.

There are many photos, and they are not all of animal butt.

I was lucky enough to hit the Giant Pandas just as they were finishing up lunch, and as such the two on display were pretty active, and I managed to get this video of the most adorable and ineffective grooming you will ever see.

Metropolitan Museum of Art: Egypt

2011-11-17T18:26:00.001Z

THERE IS A WHOLE FREAKING EGYPTIAN TEMPLE IN THE MET. A WHOLE TEMPLE. YES. WITH GRAFFITI AND ALL. A TEMPLE. PLUS MUMMIES AND SARCOPHAGI AND STUFF. WTF.The wonder of which a camera cannot capture. So you don't get to see those. There are various study halls around the Met in which bits and pieces of 'stuff', ie, "we're not sure what this is or it isn't intact enough for exhibition but is still of interest and value, so..." are crammed into display cabinets. This one swallowed me to distraction with all the interesting little bits and pieces, and it is photos of these inglorious little fragments that I am most enamored of.

Herbie did his best in the low light, but I still had to do some colour corrections. Badly. Eh!

High Line

2011-11-17T16:50:00.003Z

The High Line is a nifty lil park on the west side of Manhattan, narrow and stretching some blocks north to south. The overhead railway lines, decommissioned and derelict, have been reclaimed and made over into something that is more a work of art than a park. It's a landscape sculpture of urban decay, floral hardiness and some fabulous design.

Sadly, my camera and my photographerbrains were not of a high enough skill to capture the awesome (also I couldn't get enough distance nor break in the people strolling), so here are just a couple of wee tasters.

The park was fairly busy even on a Monday morning, and I believe it when I'm told that on weekends and in summer it is almost a no go zone. There are plans to expand it with further lines reclaimed, and if they don't put a neat little bar in there it would be a shame.

Some of us die in sharks.

2011-11-16T22:20:00.003Z

Foz: http://chronicfatigue.about.com/b/2011/11/16/do-sleep-problems-cause-fibromyalgia.htm?_inv_out=24&_inv_cp=1927025 (in response to this post)
Me: I'm rather inclined to think that sleep problems are a risk factor for EVERYTHING. Even getting hit by lightning.
Foz: Sleep problems = DEATH BY RABID WEASELS.
Foz: Because you could've run if you hadn't been so tired.

City Lights

2011-11-16T22:02:00.001Z

Did a last minute dash up the Empire State Building and took a few snaps. I'm not particularly happy with the way any of them came out, the HS10 night mode is not...I probably just need to play with it more. At any rate, the city glows.

Not the same Bladerunner feel as Tokyo, but nevertheless surreal. Manhattan, she is very pretty at night. She sparkles with so many homes.

Goldtouch Go! Ergonomic Travel Keyboad

2011-11-16T00:23:00.003Z

I've been using this keyboard for the past year and abit. It is the only keyboad out there tha is ergqonomic AND portable.

As you can see, it just craped itself.

I used t he exat same keyboad a work, and of course since it sa far more use, it did this ealier. GQot it replaed on waraty no problem. I don't hae the luxury this time aound. It wa, incidentally, the exactly same problem. Somethingq in the wiringq gqoes nuts, and suddenly the keys don't line up.

I've looked, but been unale to find ayone else reportingq on this.

Feelingq, ater tha lat post, ater statingq my only gqoal for the da wa to sit ad write my diay, thwated.

I've left my job, my home, my family, friends, loves and country. Scuttled my life to try build a new one, better suited to me now.

What more must I sacrifice?

Little wins. Let me have some little wins.

Traveling with Fibromyalgia

2011-11-15T06:25:00.001Z

That I have deleted some six starting sentences for this post indicates that perhaps I am not yet ready to write about it yet.

To begin with, I am not as well versed on the effects of fibromyalgia as I should be. This ignorance was initially willful and deliberate; I was in denial about the whole thing and just didn't want to know, which is not a novel way with initially coping with the idea of a chronic condition.

Then tempus fugit and in the last couple of months in Melbourne I was busy failing to get my affairs in order for my departure and trying to see as many friends as possible. After that, well, travel is travel. I've been busy.

I can say with utter certainty that not spending 8+ hours a day sitting at the computer has alleviated my daily pain levels substantially.

I can say with certainty that lugging my rucksack and satchel around isn't really good for me, but so far I haven't done this for any great length of time. This will change as soon as I leave the US, but given most of my stays are several nights at a time, there is plenty of time to let my muscles rest.

Reasonable suspicion that sleeping on so many air mattresses, couches and sofa beds with all sorts of different pillows isn't doing me any good, but the effects haven't resulted in any impediment yet.

I don't remember what it was to live without perpetual pain and discomfort, and I know that sounds dramatic, but I don't want it to be taken that way. I just don't. Things seem to be holding steady, and that doesn't mean I'm feeling good, it simply means I am not stuck in the grinding cycle of work followed by aggravated muscles and pain, building up over the week until the weekend when I got enough time out - only to repeat it again. Things still hurt. I'm sitting here today, with the express intention of not going out but writing this and putting things in my diary, and I know I will pay for this tomorrow.

The coming price doesn't upset me as much as it used to, because now I have the time to recover.

Fatigue, however, has begun to worry me greatly. Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome are very closely tied, and do tend to come hand in hand.

I am flattened. Excitement and wide-eyed curiosity got me through San Diego and New York, although toward the end of my time in the Big Apple I desperately wanted to stop the ride and get off. North Carolina has being a wonderful balm of quiet and calm, and to the friends who have opened their homes to me I have no words. Thank you. For comfortable silence and big couches and your wonderful delightful pets. Thank you for letting me be boring and sleep. Thank you.

And yet, it doesn't feel like enough. As though there simply isn't enough rest in all the rest fields of the whole world for me to feel fully rested. My need to sit, not to catch my breath but simply to use less energy, happens far more frequently than it should.

I want to blame this on being unfit and failing to eat and drink properly (the latter of which always happens when traveling). Except I'm sitting here now, having done nothing but watch the #OWS hashtag and drink tea, and I still feel flatter than a pancake.

I don't know if I'm being reasonable or alarmist in even considering CFS, especially considering my own fibromyalgia is...

...I was going to say mild, but it isn't, is it?

I'm just good at ignoring it.

At any rate, my advice to people traveling with either of these conditions is to allow yourself plenty of opportunities for rest, whether that means allotting yourself time to sit on the train between museums or blocking out entire days to do nothing. Unfortunately, New York simply has TOO MUCH IN IT which makes not going out and doing ALL THE THINGS very hard, but, you know, try.

Common sense is, sometimes, not that common. Especially when you have shit to prove.

iDie

2011-11-10T23:01:00.002Z

Hal III is dead. Long live Hal III.

There is no middle ground with memory and iPods at the moment, the jump goes from 60GB (which is too little) to 160GB (which is waaaaaay too much). As such I hit the nearest Apple Store and made an appointment with the Genius Bar with hopes of resuscitating Hal, because I am traveling and in transit and I bloody need all my music with me at all times.

They had some massive global infinite database which, when Hal's serial number was entered into, produced his date of purchase; 24 December 2006.

Five years old, okay, yeah, I guess we've had a good run.

He really was dead though, and I wasn't interested in spending heaps of money on a new shiny thing, so I then visited a second-hand dealer, and found a 120GB classic for significantly cheaper. Still money I wasn't intending on spending, but not a frivolous purchase I think.

Hal IV is all set up. Before syncing, 'Owner's iPod' indicated it had two songs stored upon it.

Museum of Sex

2011-11-10T16:16:00.015Z

I found the Museum of Sex completely by accident, noticed it across the road one night while waiting to get into a bar, and was of course intrigued. There are a great many things I wanted to do in New York that I failed to do, but I'm glad I spontaneously did this one. Accompanying me was a dear lady who I shall leave anonymous because she may have dignity. Or not. I know not!

At any rate, I was not sure what the policy on photography was, and so was stealing shots with my phone, hence the lack of quality.

We nearly didn't make it to the museum, so enthralled were we by what was on offer in the museum store. This book was along the lines of being 'your daily fortune in sex positions'. This being my birthday.

The museum itself is somewhat unfocused. All the exhibits are about sex, but it didn't seem to know exactly what it was trying to present. The first floor looked at the portrayal of sex in American cinema, the rise of ratings, censorship and the porn industry, without telling a whole lot.

This was followed by sex in art, combined with sexual practices. Which included robot bestiality.

And early vibrators. Which. Look. On the right is a hair dryer. In the middle is an egg beater. And that thing on the end? Who knows. Apparently the first vibrator was steam-powered. WAS IT EVER.

I won't lie, the Real Dolls were incredibly unsettling. They felt wrong and hideous, and the vacant, stoned, somewhat catatonic expression on the guy's face was not at all a mood aid.

The floor that concerned itself with sexual practices in wild animals was, however, brilliant and quite fascinating. Definitely the draw card. There was a lot of interesting bits and pieces in there, and I learned quite a bit. I wasn't sure what the koalas were doing there though. They were just on the wall. Nothing to say why.

You read that heading right.

AMAZON RIVER DOLPHIN BLOWHOLE SEX.
THAT IS LIKE COCK IN NOSTRIL.
I AM NOT ENTIRELY COOL WITH THIS EVEN THOUGH I RESPECT YOUR LIFESTYLE CHOICES.

Everyone knows pandas don't have sex.

There was an exhibition devoted to one fellow whose name I have entirely forgotten, who was a raging homosexual, keeping a 'Stud File' on all the men he slept with, and doing a lot to promote homosexuality in the arts. I don't remember the total, but he got around. I am letting the team down in comparison.

That said, I have and will never keep pubic hair.

This particular index card records the details of a daisy chain, listing who did who. I'm particularly taken with the last line, "I did all...Kinda dull."

There were I think some missed opportunities to look at sexual practices in non-Western societies, as well as looking at the role and attitude towards sex in international art, instead of just giving it a little head nod in comics at the very end. Still, I was very entertained.

I did not buy this. Regret.

Celebratory Peanut Brittle

2011-11-10T02:42:00.002Z

As far as afternoons go, this was a pretty good way to spend one.

Home is not where the nose is

2011-11-08T15:53:00.001Z

It's a good thing I'm leaving today. This guy was the only way I knew which of the many mustard-coloured railway houses were mine. Someone just moved him.

Bye, guy.

Guys: A Reminder That 'No' Means 'No'.

2011-11-07T02:45:00.004Z

I definitely should not be writing this when I'm well exhausted and thus my crankitude rating is not at optimal levels for Not Making Offensive Generalisations. But I'm going to because fukkit.

If you're in the company of someone you don't know, and you're attracted to this person, you're probably going to try and make that known to them. Yes? Well, some of you are very shy, so maybe not, but for those of you that do-

Bear in mind that liking someone does not mean they owe you shit.

If you take a chance, bear in mind that you may be rebuffed.

If you are rebuffed, bear in mind that hey, it isn't necessarily personal, they may simply not be that into you.

If you have done all this and the outcome has been delivered, well done. You have courage and take risks with yourself. Probably not the outcome you were after, but what the hey, you tried.

If you do all this, the other person has pointedly said no and that this makes them uncomfortable and you then continue to exhibit this behaviour you are now being a jerk.

The boundaries have been drawn. If you don't then respect them, you are being a sleaze, and yes, that is sexual harassment.

That first rebuff? It's reasonable you get that for free. When people don't know each other, you don't know where the lines are until you test them. When you know where they are, there are no excuses. You're being pushy.

And that second rebuff? That isn't free. That is when I start actively disliking you.

Arguing about it won't help your case.

This applies to men and women, hetero and homo, and I have been guilty of it myself, albeit my experience has only ever been with straight guys who don't understand that I don't owe them shit.

Expectations are your death knell.

Really.

You can be attracted to someone as much as you like, but they will never owe you shit.

(This certainly isn't as articulate as I'd like, but I think you get the gist.)

The G Line, Metropolitan Ave

2011-11-07T02:10:00.002Z

I sat on a wooden bench opposite, jotting things in my note book while these two fresh-faced and earnest young men began busking on the platform opposite. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am-

Metropolitan Ave, the G line by sirtessa

Things They Do Not Warn You About In New York

2011-11-04T04:43:00.005Z

Puppies.

We popped out of the Met and it must have been dog walking time because there were little scrappy doggy things everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Being a cute and happy and doggy! I half thought maybe there was some rule about dogs in New York, restrictions on pounds per inch, but today I spied quite a few larger breeds, including a gorgeous golden retriever prancing about Central Park.

We even stumbled upon a store on Lexington Avenue that sold puppies. This store was called, wait for it..."Puppies".

AND THEY WERE SO CUTE. WE DIED.

Actually the conditions were horrific. But nothing subtracts from the cuteness of a gleeful climbing puppy.

So, I am warning you. New York = puppies.

The Empire State Building! The Subway! Steaming Manholes!

2011-11-03T13:09:00.002Z

World Fantasy Con happened. It wasn't the greatest venue, but none the less I had myself a gay old time and will do it again. And again and again and again. Collect some fabulous new people and stalked some fabulous old friends and yes. I feel warm and fuzzy and that the world is full of fun.

Talk shop? What? At a publishing con? Pfffft.

San Diego in autumnal garb is ridiculously delicious. Warm sun, unblemished blue skies, and did you know they have an Ozone Layer here? Not a hole? THE SKY DOES NOT BURN YOU.
Desert nights are, however, intense. That cold comes on like a sleazebag.
There was a painting of a little girl in a blue dress in our room. She was fucking creepy. She was also apparently in every room. All the rooms. Ever. Except for two. Bulk discount on weird arse interior decorating?
Did not buy a single thing in the dealer's room. This is heartbreaking, and quite impressive.
Swimming!
Apparently when I snore I sound like I am a mongoose being strangled.
I also sound like a horny zombie.
And growl if you attempt to wake me.
I will not comment on the sleeping patterns of my companions as I am a gentleman.
The trolley in San Diego is the lovechild of both a tram and a train.
Mexican food, even at its worst, is unbelievably good in San Diego.
Even if it is free, I will screw my nose up in disgust at the beer and not drink it.
No wine for Sir Tessa not ever never again for all time forever.
Bringing out the left over book bags for distribution is like watching sharks in a feeding frenzy.
I did not play Twister while drunk.
I did get a blue tongue though.
And hit on an awful lot of pretty people.
And stole chocolates and decals from the banquet once the diners had left their tables.
I did that sober, actually.

The day after the con, we went to the San Diego Zoo.

!!!!!

Which deserves its own post.

The next day we flew in to JFK Airport, and I am sitting in a skinny apartment in Brooklyn. Yesterday I did things like take the subway across to Manhattan, see and squeal over the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings, be overcome with grief when realising we could not see all of the Metropolitan Museum of the Art in one day (but nonetheless being incredibly immature in the Roman section, see twitter for evidence), went out for a magnificent steak dinner with a slab of Little, Brown, and then on to karaoke which was EPIC and FABULOUS, and then delivered safely home.

At some point in all that, my comrade turned to me and exclaimed, "Tessa! We're in New York! When did that happen?"

MEXICAN JUMPING BEANS

2011-11-02T03:24:00.003Z

Guys.

Guys.

Seriously.

Guys.

THEY EXIST. THEY ARE REAL. THEY WERE JUMPING IN THEIR LITTLE PLASTIC BOXES WHILE I STOOD THERE AND THE CASHIER GAVE ME BEMUSED LOOKS FOR SQUEALING.

The one redeeming feature of "Fashion Valley": LEGO

2011-10-29T02:27:00.002Z

Hello!

2011-10-26T17:48:00.000Z

Goodbye.

2011-10-25T18:18:00.001Z

Reader Failure

2011-10-25T14:25:00.008Z

At the beginning of the year I seemed to be making a come back with that whole reading books thing, after the recent drought. Needless to say, that didn't really go anywhere.

Here are the books I read so many months ago. I do not do them justice.

Blonde On A Stick - Conrad Williams

Conrad Williams is one of the most powerful writers out there, and this is has all the power of a cyclone and all the precision of brain surgery. It is a brilliant, cocky, startling narrative that struts about and gets away with murder. Magnificent voice. Absolutely recommended.

Counting Heads - David Marusek

Given to me by a friend who said the fury in Acception reminded him of this, and then couldn't think why. This book blindsided me. It. Is. Brilliant. Stole my breath with its ideas and execution, and made me excited about fiction. Absolutely fascinating critiques of society, technologies and the roles they may play. Meaty, glorious stuff, with stunning characters and plot to boot. So very worth it, so very very worth it.

The Scarring - Geoff Page

The same friend gave me this, a novella in poetry. Very easy to read, with (unsurprisingly) a lovely cadence and rhythm to it. I am no poet so cannot speak of its technical merit, but as far as narrative goes....yikes.

That's...

Fuck me.

Above/Below - Stephanie Campisi & Ben Peek

Two awesome post-apocalyptic-ish novellas that fold in upon each other and bounce off each other in wonderful and interesting ways. I think I'm well documented as being a damn sycophant when it comes to Ben's writing, and this is a prime example of why. Campisi matches the grit and anguish in Below with breathless despair and denial in Above. A very intelligent read.

Guardian of the Dead - Karen Healey

Goddamn I love Ellie. Not a character, a person. So many PEOPLE in this book! Quite a lot of laugh out loud with "I know EXACTLY what you mean, girl!" moments, in amidst all the supernatural creepy shit going on. Of which there is a lot. Christchurch, it turns out, is a pretty menacing place in which to insert fiction. Great stuff, omnomnom.

Walk a mile couple of years in my shoes.

2011-10-25T10:57:00.000Z

Pictured above is a pair of size...hell, I don't know what size they are, the labels have worn off. Black canvas Cover Your Bones Chuck-a-likes. With LIGHTNING BOLTS. PCHSHUUU! And velcro tabs at the top.

As far as footwear goes, they're pretty standard hip.

They are also exceptionally dear to me.

At the beginning of 2010, coming up to the end of my five weeks roaming through Chile and Argentina, it came to the attention of the group that METALLICA WERE PLAYING IN BUENOS AIRES the night before we were due to arrive.

Thus, the only option was for the bulk of us to leave the truck in Puerto Madryn, take the public bus to Trelew, an Aerolineas Argentinas flight from Trelew to Buenos Aires, check in early to our hotel (which had never received our booking and thus also involved finding a hotel that had spare rooms), drinking beer in the ridiculously hot latino afternoon, taking the train to the stadium and GO OFF.

Like, OFF.

Which left me, while strolling around Puerto Madryn in my thongs and sweltering, wondering if I really wanted to wear my massive hiking boots to a stadium concert. Or my thongs.

Not interested.

So I bought these. I don't remember how much they were, I never could figure out the exchange rate, but I seem to recall it being something like $50AUD. As soon as I put them on I demanded my immediate company step on them, so that they weren't pristine. And then I wore them to a stadium concert and they got the snot stomped out of them.

Best.

A month later the rubber siding on both was cracked and the insole on the right had slipped. I figured they were cheap and nasty, and had served their purpose. Then I wore them all through China, Tibet and Nepal. And Melbourne. For the next couple years.

They have indeed served their purpose. Lightning bolts on my ankles, like Hermes, they've walked me over all the paths.

These I bought in Shibuya, Tokyo, back in 2007. I had a pair just the same when I was seven years old. Rainbow dinosaurs will walk me to new worlds.

Last Meal: spag bog of CHAMPIONS

2011-10-25T07:52:00.002Z

Tangent: Tortoises are clearly proof of the existence of extra-terrestrials AND evil.

2011-10-20T11:26:00.005Z

I took these photos myself, yesterday. Look at them. Look at them closely.

I rest my case.

Mum said, are you sure you really want to go?

2011-10-20T10:43:00.003Z

Nights like this night, with warm soft air and all people behind doors and windows, an amiable breeze and light rain, walking in that quiet, being unseen, feet in thongs and umbrella on my shoulder, listening to night birds and angry possums, the smell of honeysuckle and jasmine; these nights are only found here.

Book-book-book!*

2011-10-18T01:50:00.003Z

Over on GoodReads there is a give away of the Year's Best Fantasy & Horror 2011, click hither for details.

*that is the noise of chooks excited over books.

It's a good thing this is multiple choice, 50% chance I'll get it right.

2011-10-17T09:34:00.001Z

Shit Just Got Real

2011-10-16T07:32:00.002Z

Friday was my last day at work.
Sophie, our 13 year old West Highland White Terrier, will probably die while I am away.
Ten days.

Postcards!

2011-10-13T00:02:00.001Z

If you would like a postcard from far away, send me your postal address using the shoutout on the right. Strangers welcome!

EGO-BOO

2011-10-08T02:07:00.002Z

I STILL FIT IN MY YEAR 12 FORMAL DRESS. IT IS 12 YEARS OLD.
I KNOW FOR A FACT I WAS NOT PACKING THIS MUCH JUNK IN YEAR 12.

these skies

2011-10-05T05:48:00.001Z

If only I lived up high, somewhere distant from the ground, with a balcony, or better, access to the roof, so I could stand on the edge with my face to the wind a bellow like a magnificent bull triumphant in the arena, raise my fists and be the eye of the tornado this ferocious wonder spins around me.

HOLY CAVERNOUS CLAMS, BATMAN

2011-10-04T01:39:00.001Z

NEXT WEEK IS MY LAST WEEK AT WORK.

YES. I ONLY JUST REALISED THIS.

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2011-10-03T00:57:00.001Z

I peed into a cup. If there is a world championship of peeing into a cup without spilling or overflowing, I am that champion.

What colour is help?

2011-09-29T09:46:00.001Z

Only Symbolic

2011-09-29T09:13:00.002Z

That was my last head doctor appointment.

It was a gesture only, in order to make sure all my medication is in order for the journey ahead. (It wasn't, by the way, thanks to my GP screwing up medications a second time. I will not be seeing him again. Thankfully psychiatrist actually knows her stuff.)

It should be a triumph to announce that was your last medical appointment, as usually that indicates you no longer require special care. I have to keep reminding myself that while I am free of all these appointments and receipts and referrals and specialists and tests, I am not free of the problem.

I've been on 150mg daily of Pristiq for nearly two months. As an anti-depressant it isn't too bad, probably comparable in effect to the Cymbalta; still hit some very low notes, but generally able to cope with life. No horrific side-effects, at least no new ones. Sleep appears to have been a bit better than previous.

Pain relief has been notable.

Which pretty much proves the psychiatrist, gp and rheumatologist right. I have fibromyalgia.

Which means walking away from a desk job will not necessarily have any impact on the perpetual discomfort in my body. It means I may just be stuck like this forever.

I'm very tired. I've pulled so much wool over my eyes to trick myself into going on a few more days, just a bit further, I don't know what or why or how the landscape of my mind grows. This grief continues, but I know longer know what it is for.

Go on. Keep going. Just a little further. Every day. For the rest of your life.

Still the Echoes of Writer Past

2011-09-24T06:01:00.003Z

I too have received my contributor copy of The Year's Best Australian Fantasy & Horror 2010. Very nice package. Oddly tactile, the cover has this peculiar waxy feel to it, I can't stop stroking the damn thing.

Among the ToC 'Acception' is lurking (page 141-170 to be precise). It's the scoundrel among fine company. I do not know if there are still copies of Baggage available at Eneit Press, that dear book is rarer than hen's teeth now. The Year's Best is however fresh from the egg, and available for purchase from amazon and indie books.

I never mentioned receiving my Ditmar Nominee's pin, did I? A neat little thing bearing the Southern Cross. It's arrival confused me; I should be proud, should I not? Every achievement is something to celebrate, crawling and clawing my way up this molehill.

But I am not a writer.

Remember 'The Mona Lisa'? That little ditty Jeff VanderMeer and I wrote for Halo: Evolutions. And remember how they were animating it? It's done. All 11 episodes and the full story arc are out, and some awesome being in France has knit them together into the full film, 1 hour and 3 minutes of WHOA.

Again, Pyramid and One have done some superb work. The Flood are genuinely creepy and [spoiler spoiler spoiler] when [spoiler spoiler omg so much spoiler] was just EEEEK.

My favourite bit? This bit.

Benti & Henry. BFF.

Also, maturity.

2011-09-24T02:04:00.003Z

What's doing?

I'm going to have a shower now you're done.

Cool.
I cleaned my nose.
While I was in the shower.

Did you clean the shower after?

Nah.
There will just be lots of little green dots on the shower curtain that will slowly get hard over time.

I can beat that.

...
Oh yeah.
You're a woman.

I'm a woman.

[mutual guffawing]

I am the motherfucking sea.

2011-09-24T01:30:00.004Z

Too readily and eagerly I give people power over me. Readily, eagerly, and yet unwillingly. Too often the awareness of what intangible contract I am entering into is accompanied by a sinking despair, sinking as it comes from so high above, drifting down through all the layers of sky to rest on my shoulders and confirm that, yes, that was not wise, and no, they will not acknowledge or respect the power you have given them, and no, they have given you now power in return, and yes, you are a silly girl.

That's okay. I'm used to it. Perpetually exasperated, but used to it.

Just as quickly I recognise the imbalance and while I have no control over gut reactions to throw away comments, I am badhorse at seeing it goes no further. No stewing. No seething and brooding. No wringing and twisting and choking. I'm the little boy with his finger in the dyke, stopping the sea from ruining the town.

This is also an exaggeration. There is seething and brooding galore. There are leaks my other fingers can't reach. But. You know. The wall is holding.

Minutes ago, I read something that kicked off a gut reaction. I sat there, just observing that kick-in-the-guts sickness and unworthiness ripple out through my limbs, and didn't immediately stick my finger in the dyke because that's just fucking ridiculous. Why the fuck do I still let them effect me so? It isn't as though I have not accidentally on purpose given other people power over me since then, people who do acknowledge and respect that, people who in turn have given me power over them, people who drive me to giddy distraction and are not just good to me, but good for me.

Thinking on it, I don't believe I've ever successful taken back power once given.

It would be nice if I was more discriminatory about who I let effect me. It would be really, really nice if I had any sort of control over that. But, I don't think that is likely to happen. If I could change my willingness to give pieces of my vulnerability to others, I don't think I would. I suspect that would only result in never letting anyone in, and I would rather suffer the hurt and damage that others, unwittingly or not, inflict upon me than what I do to myself.

I'm not putting my finger in the dyke. There should not be a sea behind the wall.

(And just like that, there was not.)

(A magic trick she will be forced to perform on herself again, and again, and again, and she will, she will, she will.)

ETA: Bizarrely, not two minutes later the internet threw this in my face:

"Love" means many things.

There are probably people reading this, thinking "You do this to me," at me.
I am sorry.
None of us control our hearts.
And only some of us control our heads.

File under "do not lose": Love Letters

2011-09-22T22:26:00.002Z

Beautiful Tessa,

Your deftness with words and how you craft feelings and visions with them leaves me awed and enraptured... pretty much alllll the time. I love your seething rage and your immaculate imitation of cat bum and the cheeky cheeky glint in your eyes. When you smile and when you laugh, you actually glow. That light warms everyone around you. You have a natural beauty and grace about you, a ravishing dark haired vision that my eyes enjoy alighting upon as often as they can manage (I AM NOT ALONE IN THINKING THIS, RAOWR). Your advice and thoughts cut to the core, yet are not of a typical approach... lateral thinking is a rare trait, so admirable.. you are bold, daring... and you blow me away with every twist and side-eye you slip in. And you have slipped in under my skin, in between my heart and my lungs - your warm, slender self - as you have slid in to a precious soft space in all of us. Anyone would be OBNOXOUSLY lucky to know you and call you their friend, confidant, collusionist, co en-cheekenator.

<3

Preen and Primp

2011-09-22T08:55:00.002Z

If I achieve no other critical acclaim in my lifetime, I will always be able to say that Margo Lanagan likes my tweets.

2011-09-19T21:32:00.001Z

Steady rain. A magnificent day to be a snail. They're all out basking on the paths and in the puddles. I think for some it is "Snail's First Rainfall". The walk to the station was somewhat treacherous. Concentration on where I put my feet. Couple of magpies hanging out on the platform, indifferent to the wet and feathers well bedraggled. Swishing their beaks in the collected rain for a drink and singing a melodic 'fuck off' when I watched too long.

2011-09-14T10:00:00.000Z

Hello, my strangers known and unknown, if you would like to practice writing love letters by writing to me, I would be okay with that.

More scotch belleh

2011-09-14T06:25:00.002Z

He just had a haircut. So neat, quite the dapper doofbag.

2011-09-12T21:42:00.001Z

"Just like that — Just time — Just time — Don't care myself if the whole fucking shit house goes up in chunks — I've sat out novas before — I was born in a nova."

— The Soft Machine, William S. Burroughs

Is thus thang orn?

2011-09-12T01:58:00.002Z

Google has FINALLY released an iPhone app for Blogger. About time! I'm posting from it right now!

This would be a more exciting statement if I were not sitting in front of my computer. Concentrate on the possibilities instead. Autocorrect will rescind- Ha! See? Autocorrect will REACH a whole new audience!

FYI:

Gallop = halloo
Hawthorn = hawt

Now here is a picture of scotch belly.

Sheepish Ears, Piggish Head

2011-09-11T03:22:00.000Z

I'm tongue-tied, or finger-fumbled, or silenced. It was a temper tantrum that was probably inevitable, which does not detract from it being unseemly and ungracious. All readers are owed an apology.

I am sorry, and thank you for your patience.

I wish it was a true apology, in that it is one indicative of resolution and change, but I suspect it will only be an acknowledgement of past trespasses. My conduct was wrong, and I have no doubt I shall commit such selfish crimes again, and again, and again.

A month without being able to blog, even if I would not have blogged in that time, was, to put it simply, fucking horrible. For better or worse it is a coping mechanism, and for better or worse it is no longer purely my space. I will have to learn to be more discriminatory in what I do and do not share, and I can only hope I learn faster than I make mistakes.

This little voice I have has grown so much rust in that month. This post was impossible to start.

It seemed prime opportunity for an overhaul, although 'overhaul' is perhaps too strong a word. The bulk of the chaff and faff has been removed from the archives, although there is still a great amount of dross present purely on account of amusement value.

The nearer to the present the posts, the harder to decide whether to axe or keep. I spent a good while pondering whether to take down the posts that prompted the last meltdown. They're still visible for all to see. Some badly articulated notions of accountability and honesty. This blog has a long tail of psychological and emotional history, and I have no need for it to define my online presence. My history is my own. But it isn't history yet.

you me everybody everybody

2011-08-09T12:19:00.000Z

no one has claimed responsibility. no one will. maybe because i have demanded you give up your anonymity with no sense that by doing so you will be welcome. you're known to me, you must be to refer to 'in person', but no i don't know you. there's no one left in the world i can claim to know. and there's no one in the world who can claim to know me. strangers all, so it goes without saying we will cross lines we are ignorant of.

there are a bunch of lines in the sand i am well aware of, and this is me ignoring the fuck out of them.

i'm not sharing myself. this isn't for you. there is nothing about me that is not driving by selfishness most pure. this is for me. i'm not blogging for sympathy or validation. this is self-sabotage at its simplest. left to my own devices i will bottle things up until i implode. it isn't enough to write things out. these words must be read. someone else has to know, and i have to know someone else knows. not so they can do something about it, not so they can fix it or go white knighting on me, just so my state of heart isn't a secret. so this farce i act out is recognised for what it is and doesn't become too heavy. experience has taught me this and it wasn't an easy lesson.

this is self-managing.

i know it looks like attention-seeking. it isn't. it is for this reason i have taken to disabling comments on the rawer posts, as i do not want to be seen as inviting any sort of response.

it takes a long tine to get it, if you ever do. long time readers get it. lots of you are new. or not. i don't know, i've no idea who is reading or why. maybe this is flogging a dead horse. it seems it needs rehashing though. now. i don't want sympathy. i don't want advice. i don't want suggestions or empathy. i don't want validation. i don't want comfort. in fact, beyond reading this, i want you to pretend that nothing is wrong and indulge me in the pretence that everything is just peachy.

this isn't sharing. fuck, look at what i air here in public, and then take a moment to think about what i'm not sharing. this blog is a fucking weapon. it's a poison and you don't even know you're weakened. shall i go there? i'm going there.

this blog makes people fall in love with me. oh yes it does. let me count them...four. no, wait, how about five. that i know of. why, why, why, i don't know. because i'm 'sad and dangerous'. because this place reeks of confessional, it lets you buy into the belief that these 'truths' are some intimate trust between you and me, as opposed to me and the whole fucking internet. you start to believe you have some special insight into my character. you start to believe that you can save me. or fix me. or tame me.

i'm the catalyst of three separations. they would have occurred even if i hadn't been born, but i was born, and i was there, with my blog, and i'm the catalyst because people fall in love with me. i've cut people from my life because they crossed lines and assumed an intimacy, familiarity and level of trust that hadn't been earned and they didn't understand it. i've had people cut me out of their lives because that was the only way to preserve their marriage.

because i write this, and because you read it.

this is for me. i need this.

and it makes it really hard to write with this history sitting on my back and knowing that the point of writing is to be read, and knowing that being read just invites all that shit to circle around again. self-censoring comes out, and it bleeds on and on, until eventually nothing is written and everything is secret and all is pointless.

can i tell you my joints are on fire right now? i have hot glass wires in my arms. i have no nurofen. i have a headache. i have no way out. but i have to write this because ever since that well-intended email landed last night i have been churning. turmoil. in what my psychologist had called a 'state of extreme distress'. this has to be written.

why i wonder. kind strangers have emailed me previously with messages of support and warmth (i'm thinking of you, you, you and you in particular, who i have not answered and probably will not, but thank you). they were not anonymous though. strangers, but not hiding.

anonymity shouldn't bother me either.

but you said.

you fucking said.

you know this wires in my arms, they're hot glass, they're rusted nails, i don't even know any more, i've lived with this for so long i don't even know what it is i feel any more. you know i'm on a new medication and it is fucking with me. there's a daily alarm set for me to take my tablet, or else i'll get withdrawal within an hour, because i don't trust myself to simply remember to take it. there's a song plying right now, and the lyric repeated over and over is 'i hope you die' to chill lounge music by a singer who is calm and without malice. i cannot write for me any more. i cannot write a lie. without fiction nothing i do has any point. my identity has been taken from me. the identity i made for myself, the only one worth having, and it's gone. people who knew that identity still interact with it, that peeling chipped shell i'm not even touching the sides of. i can take no pride in my ability to at least do my job well, i can't even do that now, and they slap me in the face and leave me to drown and don't care if i am a bad worker, so i don't care if i am a bad worker, and my absenteeism is late blossoming, i never wagged school, i never wagged the job i fucking hated, but now my alarm goes off and i don't care, i don't even use that stolen day for anything, i just lie in bed with my eyes closed as long as i can, because i cannot face the world and there is no point to my being awake, and i'm planning this trip as a means to force me away from easy outs and my comfort zone, where i will have to reclaim some sort of determination and build myself over again on the other side of the world where no one knows me and no one will know who i used to be and i don't want to go, i don't want to go, i'm afraid and i'm tired and i can't even get out of bed in the morning, how am i supposed to set off into the unknown when i don't want to go and all the challenges sand lessons i'll learn have no point if i cannot write them out but i can't stay. i can't stay. i can't stay. i can't stay. this life draws closer to being unbearable with every minute i am awake and aware.

i'm turning into everything i don't want to be just to last these last few months to go on an adventure i don't have the capacity to survive. all you new people, all you old people, i fucking devour you. you're distractions. i need to be alone, i need solitude and silence but fuck i can't take it any more, i can't bear to be with myself any more, i hate what i am and what i have and what i have not, i hate the choices i've made and how few choices i have left in front of me, and i seek you out, you people, you distractions, you time killers. put your trivial voices in my head, cock in my cunt, get some skin on skin and be just a body for a few minutes respite before i go back to being a mind that just doesn't stop, and none of you are enough. none of you. even if you were once before. feed the hunger and the hunger demands more. i've fed all of you to the hunger, and now you're all used up and useless. is it the new meds? i don't know. i don't know. i have to start the increased dosage tomorrow. what will that do.

are tehse even emotions? i don't know. yes. no. i don't know. i'm flat and featureless, and all the turbulence of atmospheric burn up at the same time. maybe this is simulating emotions i think i should be feeling. but no. because i cannot tease apart this confusion. hurt angry mean little animal. lash out. it is instinct. there is no why. do i care enough to write this post? do i not care enough to not write this?

here are the consequences - you're offended. i am lowered in your esteem. you withdraw. any of you. all of you.

i can't find it in me to care. i don't know if that is the medication or me.

what judgement. i have none. i'll post this because this is for me. and i'll leave comments open this once, because this is for you.

i've lied to my head doctors to stop them from committing me on the spot. i'm suicidal and i don't want to be. i plan based on the intellectual probability that things will get better, one way or another. there is no hope emotionally, and i can't afford it.

and you said.

you fucking said.

you're "glad" i'm here with you.

hey, i'm just going to go into the chemo lounge over here and tell all these cancer patients who are in for the third fourth fifth round that hey! i'm glad they're here too! because they make the world a better place for being in it. or something. yeah, be happy about that.

is that what depression is? emotional cancer. thought tumors. malignant and metastasizing and spreading to everyone who enters my mind.

i'm not selfless. i take no comfort that my misery adds anything to your life. this isn't a tragedy the bard would write. there's no fucking romance, poetry or beauty in this. don't even fucking try it.

and you said.

you fucking said.

"You're never alone."

oh, i know it. oh boy do i know it. i need you all, i hate that i need you and so i hate you all. the only peace i find is when i am truly alone, with no one around and the threat of no one coming, nothing to hear, no means for me to contact anyone else. never alone. no. there's fucking millions of me, arguing and fighting and contradicting and being a confusion. and then there's all you. you worthless useless distractions. you calorie-free cardboard. you nothing.

you're always alone. i'm always alone. all that hallmark good feeling is so much nothing. maybe that helps you sleep at night. i'm alone. in my head. none of you in here with me. none of you reading my mind and doing exactly what i need when i need it, because none of you could if you could. none of you can get me up in the morning. none of you can do my exercises for me. none of you can make the decision to wait another day for me. none of you can do shit for me.

all this hand-holding, cry on my shoulder, i'm listening, curl up on my couch, it's nothing. it makes no difference. it did, once. before. earlier. when such small arms fire would have had effect.

that was years ago. you can't do shit for me now. it's nothing. it's proved itself to be nothing, meaningless, worthless, make no difference at all. because i still have to go back to being me when you trot off back to your life patting yourself on the back for a job well done. the come back is too hard. now i'd rather have no comfort at all. not even the pretense. it gets too hard. and now. now it's all about making you feel better for having made an effort to make me feel better. pardon me for once again displaying my selfishness; i don't have anything spare to help you feel better about yourself. go white knight at someone to whom it will actually make a difference, to whom it will actually help.

you said

"We'll help if we can. If you ask."

i'm not asking because none of you can do shit for me. you can't change a thing. i don't want help i want change. i'm not asking because i can't ask. no one who needs help can ask for it.

you said

"You're wonderful."

fuck off. i'm not some beautiful broken thing.

you said

"Don't ever stop."

don't ever tell me what to do.

you said

"I love you."

now ask yourself, is that still true?

all of this is true.
now.

one day it will not be.
one day.
not today.

funny

2011-08-09T04:25:00.000Z

this is your fear, not mine

2011-08-09T03:32:00.001Z

2011-08-08T09:31:00.004Z

who sent this

the battlefront begins at my birth and never ends

2011-08-08T04:31:00.002Z

On the Subject of Towels

2011-08-05T23:26:00.002Z

How do you prefer your towels;

A) Soft, fluffy, like wiping yourself all over with an obese Angola rabbit which has only ever bathed in fabric softener made from the milk of puffy pillows

OR

B) Ancient, dessicated and concrete, like drying yourself down with the tongue of a drought which rasps away your top layer of skin to suck up every last trace of moisture

you are angels and drunks, you are magi

2011-08-04T09:16:00.004Z

First Pristiq tablet yesterday at 0840 hours. No immediate effects noticed. MASSIVE NIGHT SWEAT.

Second Pristiq tablet today at 0840 hours. No immediate effects noticed until I realised I was chipper to the point of manic. Those of you on twitter copped the brunt of it. Below is the gist of my tweeting for the day, and by 'gist' I mean 'everything but the yes/no @ replies'. It's very shouty. (Start at the bottom and work your way up. It's a pain I know.)

Extra points if the lie involves lemon meringue pie.
Yeah, I'm clocked off, but you can still sit on my lap and have your ear licked. Just tell me a lie and make me believe it.
Our hero enters the train mid-flight, the doors closing in on her, and squealing like a stuck schoolgirl piglet. #stylin'
Now; lion hunting.
Oh thank fuck I can stop being so loudly awesome. Was giving myself a headache.
HOME TIME HOME TIME THIS IS YOUR CASE WORKER AT THE MINISTRY OF LOVE, SIGNING OFF. SNOGS AND PAWINGS, MY FREAKY DARLINGS, SNOGS AND PAWINGS.
@battledinosaur SWEET LITTLE PEACHASAURUS YOU ARE WALKING CUTENESS EVEN IN YOUR SLEEP
@ZacDavies NAH MATE I JUST REALLY LOVE TEA CHEERS MATE
I WOULD LOVE A THIRD CUP OF TEA. LOVE ONE. LOVE IT. SWALLOW THAT FUCKER WHOLE. PHWOAR.
@trickyidnego YOU LEARN WELL, GRASSHOPPER. HAVE SOME ROSES.
@tyronotron @emlypie MAY THE LOVIN' BE IN YOU.
DOES THIS SMELL LIKE CHEAP ROMANCE TO YOU?
I WANT YOU TO WANT ME TO LOVE YOU. SO I CAN SPURN YOU. SCHOOL OF LIFE, CLASS IS IN.
@emlypie @tyronotron SING IT BACK BRING IT BACK SING IT BACK TO MEEEEEE
@emlypie WELL I LOVE HER ANYWAY. SHE GAVE ME A BISCUIT.
@idreamofcodeine AND BY THROW YOU MEAN HURL IN THEIR FACE. AWWW. YOU KNOW ME SO WELL. C'MERE YOU SACK OF SUGAR.
HEY @emlypie I'M GONNA STAND OUTSIDE @tyronotron's DOOR I KNOW HE'S HOME.
@emlypie WELL DAYUM WOMAN YOU SHOODA CALLED AHEAD YOUR MUM IS LOOKING AT ME FUNNY I THINK SHE JUDGES MY LOVE
@ZacDavies MORON 1+4 LAWL
I'M GOING TO WALK 100 MILES TO STAND OUTSIDE @emlypie's DOOR, WHICH ISN'T CREEPY AT ALL.
@ZacDavies NO REALLY. THAT SHIT IS BANANAS.
4 hours ago
I'M FROM THE MINISTRY OF LOVE, I'M HERE TO HELP. YOU WILL BE LOVED. LIKE A MAROON5 SONG. NO I DON'T CARE IF YOU DON'T LIKE MAROON5. FFS.
@Marxamus @simonnix IF I DO IT REALITY DISTORTS AND IT DOES NOT SUCK
@simonnix BA-DUM-CHING
THE LACK OF FLOWERS YOU HAVE BROUGHT ME HAS NOT GONE UNNOTICED.
I think when she's drinking she's drowning some riot, what is my friend trying to hide...
@tyronotron TALK TO YOUR ANCESTORS, THEY'RE THE ONES WHO EVOLVED EARS.
@simonnix FUNNY IS PROBABLY GOING TO FILE A SEXUAL HARASSMENT CLAIM.
RT @charlesatan: @sirtessa I FIGURED EVERYTHING WOULD STILL BE IN ALL CAPS IF YOU WERE SPEAKING IN REAL LIFE
ALTHOUGH I WAS INDEED YELLING AT YOU BEFORE BECAUSE YOU ARE A JERK. BRING ME A CUP OF TEA AND I SHALL CONSIDER YOUR PARDON.
IT IS NOT ALLCAPS, IT IS MY AWESOMNIC FIELD DISTORTING REALITY.
[cries, rides off into the sunset.]
SURE, TAKE MY LOVE, BUT YOU SHOULD KNOW I DON'T LIKE YOU, NEVER LIKED YOU, YOU'RE A JERK.
NO REALLY THAT IS JUST FINE.
WHATEVER.
FINE. JUST FINE.
I'LL LOVE YOU IF I WANT YOUR ARGUMENT IS INVALID
You dispute my love? What are you saying, that I have bad taste in love? Who the fuck are you to tell me who to love?
[The previous tweet true for a limited time only.]
I love you, and am prepared to go to war if you refuse this love. Think carefully. I have elephants, triceratops and velociraptorbearsharks
@PoppyGallico you are ahead of me, and clearly branched off into an alternate universe in which lunch was uh maze ink.
Those of you in lagging time zones, here's a heads up: your lunch for Thursday is pretty bland. #youarewelcome
I DUB @tyronotron THE NEXT STAGE OF HUMAN EVOLUTION.
@Jazpuh_ special clauses and amendments for you, milady.
7 hours ago
@Genghis_Dong I like to play benevolent dictator now and then.
SEE I DON'T SUCK RT @idreamofcodeine: @sirtessa you're adorable...your existence on my twitter feed brightens my day :)
@tyronotron I ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR EXISTENCE YOU REQUIRE NOTHING ELSE IN LIFE
@hannahrochelle I am not. Everyone else is irrelevant.
I have risen from my morose depths and lo the sun doth hide its face because verily I am a badass muthafucka like that. #sorrymelbourne
@hannahrochelle BOYS BOYS HAVE ALL THE FUN WE SAW @allyouzombies WITH HIS PANTS UNDONE
@jamesgorman the city sirens are BLARING IN MAH EARS
PHRASE REPETITION. SEPPUKU YOU FILTHY WORD ABUSER.
Right now @purrsikat & @_twertle are the most adorable things in my world right now. Dare you to usurp them.
Mirrorball is an appropriate soundtrack for burning buildings and toasting souls.
Spirals down 11 flights with the music up to awesome.
Of course they call a fire evacuation drill as I'm evacuating my bladder.
@nosubstance headbop sidestep blinky-blink headbop sidestep blinky-blink
@Genghis_Dong blink
@nosubstance blinky-blink headbop headbop headbop HUGE STARING EYES GLARE GLARE GLARE STOP hammer time
blinky-blink turn head all the way around squint blinky-blink-blink
i feel owlish. Like, i'm doing that suspicious blinky-blink thing owls do.
Dear friends; you are angels and drunks, you are magi...
Bayonets and banana bread; let me share the glorious death of this day with you, over and over, we rise as kings and rest as usurpers.
@hannahrochelle congratulations on leveling up, minihannah!
Is the abseiling window-washer harassing the seagulls, or are they harassing him? (Would love to have that job.)
Last night my body attempted to commit suicide via massive dehydration. #nightsweat

On the train ride home I switched from twitter to texts, and sent a lot of shouty texts to people who would not get in trouble or freak out to be the recipient of shouty amorous texts.

High as my yellow diamond kite with blue and green streamers. Cheery and directionless and useful as a marshmallow. I meant everything I said. I mean everything I say.

This message is for you II by sirtessa

I don't care if this is an artificially and medically induced high. It is here, and I must use and abuse the shit out of it while it is. I will suck it dry and leave myself empty and hollow, because when it leaves - and it is leaving - I will not be able to say any of these things with the fierceness they deserve.

You are magnificent. Be flawed and make magic.

I apologise for none of this.

no more please no more

2011-08-02T09:51:00.000Z

I think the cold has contributed greatly, in that aside from getting into my bones I spend most days wearing heavy coats, hunching my shoulders and hunkering down in them, with my hands in my pockets. Bad posture. Bad for hands.

Been chewing Nurofen Plus like they're lollies. Terrible bad lollies that, if I take two at a time and wait an hour or so, provide real tangible relief. They're the shit. They've also burned a hole in my gut and when I shit I stain the bowl bloody. Lots of it. Clots of it. Fresh and infringing on McDonalds red.

I stopped taking them of my own volition, and stuck it out until my next GP appointment. Told him this. He told me I should not have been taking ibuprofen with Celebrex. I don't recall this, I'm sure I've checked with multiple pharmacists every time I buy yet another box of Nurofen. I'm sure I've even checked with my GP, multiple times. But, these drugs, they make things fall out of my head. Maybe they made that fall out of my head.

Clearly the Celebrex was not enough, so he gave me a prescription for Tramadol, to be taken twice a day instead of the Celebrex. He told me it was an opiate, and there may be some nausea and drowsiness, and it was simply a matter of getting my dosage right. He's still treating me for fibrmyalgia, he says, so this will be targeting neurological pain. I asked him if it was okay to take Nurofen with this. He said no, I wouldn't need to take it you see. But you said we had to get the dosage right-

Off I went with my prescription. $38 later. The pharmacist sought me out. I shouldn't be taking Tramadol with Cymbalta, and should talk to my GP. My GP prescribed them. Oh. Well. They really shouldn't be taken together, so if you feel any nausea, any side effects, stop taking them immediately.

First tablet Sunday morning. No noticeable effect. Second tablet Sunday night. No noticeable effect. The pain could have been less, but it's hard to judge on weekends, there being considerably less time spent in front of the computer.

Third tablet Monday morning. Intense cold sweats, shakes and faintness on the train in, to the point of pushing for a seat and still not being sure that I wasn't going to keel over. This getting progressively worse during the day. Not having any flex time or sick leave without certificate to my name. Not being able to go home because I'm so behind at work I just can't justify it. Not being able to go home because I was certain I wouldn't last the trip. Spent five hours of work day mostly faceplanted on my desk and concentrating very hard on breathing.

Early afternoon the nausea took a step back, only to be replaced by drowsiness. "Drowsiness" is too light a word however. Diet narcolepsy perhaps. I did a quick dirty google on Tramadol. Lots of talk of seizures, and Serotonin Syndrome, and the fact that it is highly addictive both physically and psychologically.

I left work early to head over to Richmond, where I finally had an appointment with a psychiatrist.

Finally? I don't know. As if that is a good thing. The first session is always given to backstory and context, and I cried, because I can't break any of this down into small, easy to swallow pieces. It is either all - drowning and choking on everything - or nothing.

Cymbalta and Tramadol, the psychiatrist said. They should not be taken together, ever. The interaction can bring on Serotonin Syndrome, which isn't something that requires a dosage level be met, but can come on at any time. Stop taking it immediately.

Try Pristiq.

Who the hell comes up with drug names.

I've prescribed Pristiq to patients with both depression and fibromyalgia and had success, she says. You'll only have to take the one pill a day.

She does not give me a prescription, but sends a report to my GP, whom I am seeing later in the week.

For some reason, I am not relieved to be given professional permission to cease the Tramadol.

The drowsiness remains for the following day. I nearly miss my station. I nod off in a meeting I am chairing. I nod off while penning a sentence. I nearly miss my station again.

Questions. What the fuck was my GP thinking prescribing me these two drugs that would interact negatively? Does he have any fucking idea what he's doing?

Do I really want to try yet another drug?

And fail?

Friday. I see my GP. I tell him that the drug incapacitated me, and that the pharmacist and psychiatrist both stated emphatically that Cymbalta and Tramadol should not be taken together.

He shrugs and says "Well, that's where we're at now isn't it? We have to try these things, because we're running out of options."

He told me nothing other than it was an opiate and I'd probably get a bit of nausea. He did not inform me of anything. He made the decision for me. If I'd known, I would have decided against. I keep my mouth shut. He writes me a prescription for Pristiq. A box of 100mg and 50mg. Take the 100mg for a week, and then bump the dose to 150mg daily.

He doesn't tell me anything about this drug either.

I go home, and read about it. All the standard side effects you'd expect from an SNRI. Welcome home night sweats and muscle contractions, hello again insomnia and appetite loss.

What frightens me this time, what really frightens me, is that Pristiq has a much shorter half-life than Cymbalta. Pristiq is also marketed as Effexor, and I have read and heard many stories of people caught out by that - not randoms, people I know and trust - and being hit by severe withdrawal within hours of missing a dose, if that. Cymbalta has quite a long half-life. When I first started taking it I was prescribed Seroquel as well, in order to have a crutch to support me for the three to four weeks it took for the Cymbalta to kick in. Weekdays I take my dose when getting out of bed, at sixish. That's fine, that's regular. Weekends, however, I might not surface til 10, 11, 12.

Cannot do that on Pristiq.

Went to pick up prescription. Different pharmacist pulled me aside. Gave me advice regarding what other pain relief medications may be taken in conjunction with - Nurofen and Panadol with codeine are good for go. When I described the effect of the Tramadol, he said I'd probably had the beginnings of Serotonin Syndrome.

Had I? I didn't think- don't I know the effec- I've researched Sero-

The drugs. They make things fall out of my head.

$68 later, and I can tell you Pristiq are small, pink and square.

I am so tired of this. I don't believe I have fibromyalgia and therefore treating fibromyalgia won't help me. I hate these drugs. I hate what they do to my mind and so what they do to me as an idea. I'm in here somewhere. I must be. But I'm so tired of this. I'm so scared. I don't want to do this anymore.

perfect weather to fly

2011-07-28T14:40:00.005Z

There are only two things in the world that can heal me, comfort clean rejuvenate revitalise remind me; mountains and music.

Much money and time has gone into taking myself to mountains - the Andes! the Himalayas! - and it is effort enough that it only happens maybe once a year if I am particularly studious. Music is much more obliging. There's just some special power these two things...these ideas have, the power to erase an identity while maintaining an awareness. The power to make you so irrelevant and insignificant that you are free.

But it must be live, and it must be loud. I couldn't breathe because the music filled my lungs and there was no room for blood with the music roaring in my veins and there was no space for me-

And I am free.

This is. You see. The medication.
The medication is a thief. Perhaps it took the edge off the hurt, but it took the altitude from the highs as well. Take me away from me and I am a roaring fireball of joy. So often I am stormy seas, I am the howling heart, I am fury - the medication does not take that. And I can howl from delight just as loudly, the earthquake is from glee, the satellites buzz my ear I am so high so exhilarated so glorious.

It takes important things. They are all important things. It has stolen what this blog post was going to be about.

Of course I cry anonymous and alone in a crowd. The music demands nothing less than to pay fealty to its majesty. But I also cried from grief, as even as I was giddy with love, I knew this couldn't last. This magnificence is like smoke; you inhale and it is everything, and then, you exhale, and it is gone.

This message is for you. by sirtessa

I wanted to say to you, that, right now I am a superhero. I love you strangers known and unknown, and could heal all your heartsores by just looking at you, because I'm radiation, you can't see feel taste touch hear the wonder and I can't contain it, it's bleeding from me and into you and loosening your fears. All I need do is hook my littler finger around your thumb and you'll be up here with me, among the satellites. Tonight is beautiful, and tomorrow will be too.

I wanted to say that, while it was true.

But I have exhaled.

And it is not.

2011-07-21T12:24:00.001Z

Where to begin when there is no beginning. Context has already been well and truly ground into this blog. Old ground old ground old ground. Stuck in a groove as they say, the gramophone playing the same ring over and over and over and over.

What was I going to say.

None of these are questions. They are confessions of ignorance that do not expect or require an answer. Rhetoric. What am I saying. Do I have anything to say.

If I said I was not doing well would you just laugh. Captain Obvious much.

The pain is phenomenal. I would say this is the worst it has ever been, but, I have lived with pain so long now I can't be sure. It is always there. Like skin. It is always there. Don't think about it much unless it is acute. That's not true. I think about it all the time. I'm thinking about it now, how all the tension in my body makes my jaw clench and pulls on my scalp and squeezes my skull and I have a perpetual headache, and it feels like there is broken glass sliding between my bones and in my joints. There is no comfort. Anywhere. Not a moment of it. My body is out of sorts, its bones don't fit, the muscles don't fit, the skin doesn't fit, I'm all wrong, everything about me is wrong.

Too much nurofen plus. Ibuprofen makes you bleed, and there is blood coming out everywhere. I see the docctor tomorrow. I will tell him this. Maybe he will give me something else. What does it matter. I was never sure, could never be certain, that the nurofen actually made a difference. Never without pain. You do not understand a chronic condition until you have one. I can say this, because now I have one, and have had one long enough to understand, and when I look back I know I knew nothing.

I had a spell on Tuesday. One of those fainting in a public place spells. Thankfully I was not too public, and not too alone. Fortunately, I didn't faint. Unfortunately, I didn't faint. It's like vomit. You feel better if you just do it, instead of fighting it off. Or maybe it's all the ibuprofen. I didn't faint. The threat of it has been dogging me since. Nothing is solid. Gravity shifts about nervously. My hands shake. I must sit down. I must rest my head in my hands, hands on the table. I must stop. And wait.

Maybe it was because I had a little relapse, and purged.

Maybe it is because insomnia loves me too much. Three, four hours of sleep a night. I'm tired. I'm resigned. I give up. For the last month I've been having accidents with my alarm clock once or twice a week. If you consider I take one day off a week for physio and to rest my arms, that's not a great track record. Got myself into severe flex time debt, because I simply can't stay and make up the hours. It hurts. I'm falling behind at work. The piles of files on my desk are growing, and they're all urgent. All of them need to be done last month. I'm given at least one more a day, and I'm not clearing one a day. They tell me not to get stressed. How. Why. I'm practically part time, I can't do anything for myself in my private life, and I can't even take refuge in the assumption I'm doing my job well. I'm not. I'm falling behind. Clients call and ask for a status report and yell at me and say they will lose their children and it will be my fault.

People ask my how my writing is going.

7wishes has been returned to me. Knocked back by every publisher in the whole world in all history.

The psychiatrists ran me back and forth between intake and outpatient. I sent them the referral over a month ago. Back and forth back and forth. Despite my repeated requests for a female doctor, they kept referring me to a man. No. No. No. Listen to me, please, I can't fight for myself any more. Finally, an appointment on Monday. Every time they called I'd hang up, go to the bathroom and lock myself in a cubicle until the shaking stopped. This is wrong, this is all wrong, I'm all wrong.

There doesn't seem to be any climbing out progressing improvement getting better. In anything. This rabbit hole has no bottom like the sea has no bottom it's just cold black and crushing forever. No walls no nothing just you sinking forever.

There was a permanent position advertised in my office. The very role I'm performing. I'm only on loan from my old department. Of course I applied. I was doing the job, why wouldn't I get it? Everyone in the office assumed it was mine, and my offsider would then pick up my contract.

Instead, they gave it to an external applicant.

Not just the usual kick in t he gut from a job rejection. Humiliation. I'm humiliated in front of the whole office. I'm not good enough. An external applicant. I can't remember how many times I've gone for this job. It is doubtful anything more will be advertised before I leave.

That day I went to a travel agent and booked and paid for all my flights. Spite and bitterness, what fine motivators. My life is propelled by all that is sour. Melbourne to Sydney to LAX to San Diego. San Diego to New York. New York to NC. FL to New York. New York to Reykjavik. Reykjavik to Copenhagen to Berlin.

What is to anticipate. What excitement. I have none. Desperate only to stop this. This. Whatever this is. But I can't leave myself behind.

Does it matter.

I just want my hands back. I want my voice back. I want to write. That is the source of all that is broken. I could navigate every unknown sea the world saw fit to put in my path if only I had my voice my hands if only.

That seemingly self-destructive binge has continued. Meeting more and more stranger. Some people become less stranger due to prolonged exposure. Still. Strangers. You forget. When your people are people who know you and you've each trained each other and you don't have to explain any more. You forget. And then you introduce new people, and at first it's fun and then over a period of time they start giving you this look, as if they realise that it wasn't a one off, you really are like this all the time, and then they start dismissing whatever you just said with "you're weird" and similar. And yuou remember all over again that you're not normal. There's not hing noraml about you. You're all wrong.

What are all these people for anyone. What do you achieve with all these people. They're just distractions. All of them. You use them to fill your minutes so they pass quickly, and fill your head with noise so you can't hear yourself. Just using them. You could be good friends with any number of them, but you'll never know, because you are all wrong and your agenda and motives are all wrong and there is no honesty left with you.

And they. Who are they. What are they using you for. I turned down sex you know. There was a very long time I could not say no, because I believed that if I did the world would take my refusal in black and white and no one would ever want me again. I had to be grateful for any attention I got, because I wasn't worth attention. I turned down sex because I was tired of this charade of whatever it is people keep doing. This social dance. This pretending to be BFF and totally understand and get each other. This. Whatever this is. Do you know what I have to offer? Big tits and a pretty face. If anyone talks to me, initiates conversation or continues contact, that is why. There was a time I wanted to be pretty. Now that I am, I hate it. Nothing but surface. Only the surface. All this depth. With no bottom. No one wants that.

Nothing is getting better. Nothin.

Nothing is relief. Respite. Nothing else. Nothing helps.

I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to bee at work. I didn't want to go ut. I wanted. I don't knoww. Everything I 'm not. I yelled on twitter because, because, attention whoring, take pity on me even though i am not physically capable of responding. oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooopathetic and asked for a hug. asked for one. didn't go and get it, no. felt so fucking ashmed for asking. humiliated again. because i was asking of someone i had no right to ask from. and i though, twho else is there?

i walked to the ferris wheel by the yarra. it wasn't moving. operating, but no one was on it so it wasn't spinning. lost my nerve. no courage. sat by the river staring at it and all the dark globes as the sun set. i couldn't ask for the engine to turn just for me. i couldn't. i'm not worth that. i didn't know what else to do with my time. it was cold. so cold by the river. i found a plastic figure in the dirt. his paint was worn off.

he'd been dropped, abandoned, forgotten, so i picked him up and put him in my pocket. now he is on my desk. where i will forget him too. what has changed. nothing changes.

i had no where to go. no where to be. this is not home. this is not home. home is a state of mind and i am home sick. this is not home. this is not my space. i have no where to be. there was nowhere to be. just sat there in the cold and dark waiting for enough time to pass, because otherwise they would ask why i was 'home' early. and i couldn't be there. but i had nowhere to be. no where to go.

i stood out the front of thet house just standing because, because that meant more time had passed, putting off opening the front door and putting on a mask. jsut stood there on the sidewalk like a creep.

that is. all.

i'm going to purge now.

The Cacophony of Extended Family

2011-07-20T01:38:00.002Z

Mynahs raising the roof. by sirtessa

BWAAAAAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA

2011-07-19T13:27:00.004Z

So Ben Peek hightails it off to the US of A, gets pished on the 4th of July and demands my postal address. He's going to send me a postcard, he says.

There was a postcard in the package, he did not lie. There was also a t-shirt.

BEST. T-SHIRT. EVAH.

Immediately showed it to mother and brother, both of whom shared my reaction: astonished gleeful cackling.

Thanks, Dr Peek. You da man. <3

The Ceiling Unfelt

2011-07-18T09:16:00.004Z

the sun sets

The sun struggled, it didn't want to go and so left scratches in the sky.

the sun rises

My freaky darlings, today is so fat with delight it has stretch marks, and it is all for you.

the sun sets

Act swift if you wish to pan the clouds for gold, for the gold is gone even swifter.

2011-07-10T09:24:00.002Z

there are ghosts in the wires
ghosts wired on electricity
we are all someone's ghost
we are all waiting to become ghosts
so i am haunted