Oh. Dear.

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

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.

This Heart Howls, This Knee Jerks, This Voice Says

There isn't enough footpath in the world. No, that's not right. There is. More than enough. But I cannot walk- No, that's not right either.

At this point I choose to return to this address, or, I feel obliged and I heed that obligation. There is only so many loops of these suburbs I can make before I run out. A street can only be walked once a day. Maybe once at night, too, but it is summer, and the daylight never dies.

The office released us early, as with all other work places given the crowd on the train. Nothing called for my attention. I lingered at work after the others had left and stretched out my last tasks as far as I could, but they didn't have much elasticity to them.

When I left, I walked city blocks, aiming for this train station, and then when it arrived too soon, aiming for the next train station, and the next, and the next, until I didn't know how to walk to the next station, and Hoddle Street is a cunt of a street to drive on, let alone walk, so I caved and caught a train. For the duration of the ride my legs jittered.

The Twice-Only Dimensional Insect Empire spies upon us all. They have planted bugs in High Street.

They. Will. Get. In. Your. Ear.

The printout in the window of the Palace Cinema said 'last days!' Ominous. These days never end. The attendant said yes, this was the last showing of Monsters. Nothing called for my attention. The ticket was in my hand before I'd even thought about it, before I'd remembered the trailer looked a wee bit scary.

With two hours to kill I walked up High Street. I wandered into every new and used bookstore, ran my hands over clothes I couldn't afford, and blinked in the unfamiliar sun. The point was to walk. To move. The point was to stretch every minute mission as far as I could, but, time is always more elastic, always stretches further.

Lunch was at 4.30. A bag of Doritos.

The sun is set. The sky is not dark. The flying foxes are so much scattered pepper washing past my window.

There was an incident with the last post.

If an agent of the Twice-Only Dimensional Insect Empire gets in your ear, it will eat your third dimension, and then, eat your heart.

Monsters is not a flashy action-thriller. It was an unsubtle social commentary, beautiful and restrained, understated without being coy, and gentle, so gentle.

The monsters were beautiful. They were not monsters.

Monsters only exist in the unknown. To know something is to strip it of power. To understand it is to have empathy, and even if that empathy is without sympathy, possibly with judgment, it is no longer unknown, and the monster is gone.

I am not a monster, I am just a person. I know no monsters, only people.

Monsters may be easier to deal with. Monsters always of the possibility of being wondrous.

No, that's wrong, that's entirely wrong.

Monsters only exist when we fear them. In which case, I am a monster, I know many monsters, you're all monsters, there are no people anywhere. Also, I am afraid of the hair in the shower plughole.

B said to T, you'll be on your way out yelling get out of my way or I'll elbow you in the face! B demonstrated this action. I was behind B. Our heights are so perfectly balanced to have her elbow hit my face.

I whispered intensely to B, while she was talking to R, that there was an eyelash in her eye and she had to get it out because I couldn't stop staring at it and it was bothering me. She dug and dug and finally got it. And made a wish not to elbow me in the face next year. Then gasped in dismay because she'd revealed her wish, and thus, it will not come true.

I retreated to my cubicle.

B isn't a monster. She left sherbet bombs in our socks.

This blog. As with counselling, I'm weighing the balance between its benefits and its damage.

I know I am......not easy to know? But then, is anyone? Perhaps I should say, I know I am frustrating to know. I am confounding. My continued presence in a person's life seems to demand more patience than is fair. Perhaps? Maybe? I am only extrapolating, really. No one has turned and said, "Goddamn you're fucking exasperating to be friends with." Not yet.

It seems to be easy to misread me, and normal to get me entirely wrong. Maybe that too is normal. Maybe everyone regularly experiences that chasm of dislocation that comes when you realise someone has completely misunderstood you, and that difference between perceptions will never be reconciled.

This blog is prime for that. All personal blogs are fucking ripe for leap-frogging to incorrect conclusions, no matter how well meant. It's just what happens when your primary contact with a person is highly filtered. How many of you can read my facial expressions, or my tone of voice? There's a limited number of you for which I can claim that degree of familiarity.

There was an incident with the last post.

There is comfort in empty spaces.

Immediacy is in the nature of the internet. Now, now, now. It's drifted down through our subconscious and is so much sediment, now, now, now.

Personal blogs are, by there very nature, personal. Some come to serve their audiences, for better or worse. Some come to a compromise with their audiences, for better or worse. And some just...carry on. Guilty as charged.

When I write my massive long confrontational confessional soul-bearing heart-rending WOE THE FUCK IS ME posts, I'm aware of the effect they have. Comments are mostly closed because of that. People care, people are compassionate, people want to reach out.

And I'm just...not easy to know.

Those massive long confrontational confessional soul-bearing heart-rending WOE THE FUCK IS ME posts are my healing. If I can write them, then the worst of the crisis is past, or I am at least in a lull. To write is to define, to define is to control, and that small semblance of power and processing makes a world of difference. Oh it does. If I can then post that writing, make public, have my voice be heard, then my head is above water.

From your point of view, it doesn't look it. It looks like the Apocalypse.

You never see the Apocalypse. That happens in silence, behind closed doors.

These posts, they happen after the storm.

I do. I love it. People can't help but smile back.

And I am...not easy to know. I do not want sympathy, something that has (just for once) nothing to do with pride. It is a burden. I'm sorry, but to know I cause you concern weighs on me heavily and is a point in favour of keeping silent, and I must not. If I want advice or suggestions, then I will ask for it, and you will know it. That which is unsolicited is so heavy, I'm not prepared to receive it, yet feel obliged to do something about it, even though I may not have the resources or desire.

Most of you have loitered here long enough to simply reach out, let me know you're there and aware. This means more to me than you can imagine.

Others will continue to push help, and even though I struggle to accept it with grace, I appreciate the care I'm shown and haven't earned. Who am I kidding, there is no grace, only silence. I'm an arrogant ungrateful cunt at the best of times. I will push you away.

This runs contrary to your compassion, your caring, and your desire to reach out.

Look, if you leave me unattended in a room with a blank whiteboard, there will be sharks. That's all I'm saying.

Did you know I have trust issues? Of course I do. Especially concerning people who appear to be concerned with my well-being.

I mean, for starters, I have confused ideas about strength. That is, to be strong means you must be strong, which in turn means never being weak, which in turn, can be externalised by simply never displaying weakness. You must be fooled in order for me to fool myself. So my nearest and closest are constantly hurt and rejected that when I am vulnerable and wounded I will not go to them for help, I will not ask for it or hint that it may be required, I will not allow them to be the friend they are.

Conversely, I know what it means to support such a weight. It is immense, and the responsibility is equal, and crushing. I love my friends too much to want to be a burden to them, I love them too much to ever make myself a burden, I will not do that to them.

I am too heavy. Too many people have dropped me. Too much hard work for no guaranteed reward. I am not worth the price to be paid. Those with a White Knight Complex adore me. They're like flies on bullshit, they can't keep away from my distress and anguish and raw bleeding emotional chunder. The smell of pain intoxicates them, and they rush in to save me.

I make a shit damsel in distress. FYI.

When they realise I'm not an easy rescue and I'm hard work, harder work, fucking impossible work, when they realise that I won't enable them to feel good about themselves for having rescued someone from their misery, they drop me, fast as they can, and disappear.

Trust issues. You think?

Concerned for my well-being? Want to fix it? Get the fuck away from me. Fuck off. Just fuck off. Take all your "good intentions" and choke on them.

Be my friend. Make me laugh. Honour me with fun times and untarnished moments. Sit beside me and say nothing while we stare at nothing. Let me be a normal person. Pretend there is nothing wrong so I can pretend there is nothing wrong, for a while, with you.

Don't fix me. It isn't your place, privilege or right.

That task is mine.

The last line in Monsters was, "I don't want to go home."

This is my flat.

Home is a state of mind.

I am out of my mind.

So many times I have nearly deleted this blog. I haven't kept count. This was turning over and over in my head. Depression frightens me. When the counsellor asked me about it, I said there was nothing not to fear about it. By extension I fear all things that may lead to it, and if something I post here leads to something that knocks me flat and shakes my already unstable footing with doubt, and insecurity, and shame, and hurt, and confusion, and uncertainty, and shame, and shame, and shame, then I must exterminate it. In the balance of things the potential for trouble here is great, too great, it is inevitable.

But. But.

This is my voice. The last bastion of my voice. With Baggage and ASIM: Best of Horror 2 out this year, my writing is ended. There is no more "forthcoming" and no more being written. I do not write, I am not a writer. This is all that remains of my voice. To use a voice is to be heard. If I cease blogging, I have no voice. No voice. No voice.

This is my voice. Violently melodramatic and self-pitying, it is mine.

Perhaps it would help to add an ACHTUNG! to the side bar, notifying visitors that this is an advice, suggestion and sympathy free zone. We are demilitarised. This war is purely civil, and, uncivil. It is a spectator sport, and no, you may not join in.

Doubt and insecurity and the fact that I simply can't see anything because I am OUT OF MY FUCKING MIND shakes me. Is this a good idea? Does it offend and insult you? Would it? More than I already have?

Even if I didn't have a blog, people automatically try to fix things that appear broken, and I am stubborn and prideful and take independence to unhealthy extremes. Suggestions must be presented and then summarily ignored, so they may sit in the hinterbrain until they are familiar and unintimidating, and I may consider them objectively instead of hysterically.

I don't know, I just don't know.

Thus spoke the Sages of Public Sanitation, and they were not wrong.

I've had two bottles of cider, which is a lot for me. The last food I ate was that packet of Doritos. Seven hours have passed. The hurt has not worn off. I am upset and doubt myself, ashamed of myself, and shame draws up fury, and so this post is a knee-jerk reaction, exactly the sort of post I make an point of not making. It is a rule I live by: do nothing and decide nothing when you are upset.

I am upset, but I do not think I am wrong.

No. Really. There were three whiteboards. I can't even share the third photo as it happens to be over a potential confidential document.

This is not a post that I have dwelt upon for weeks and constructed carefully. It's word and thought vomit. Comments are on. Go for it. Vent frustration and hurt at me. Be offended and churlish. Be understanding and wonderful. Talk about geckos. Vote on the ACHTUNG! Judge me. Don't judge me. Use your voice.

This is the last of my voice, and I will fucking defend it. No one is worth the triumph of self-censorship. The war may only be in my head, but you will be the casualties.

The days are long. Summer is the invasion of light. There is only so much that sunglasses can hide.

I stopped walking. Halfway between there and here. I did not want to return to my flat. I wanted to go home, but home is a state of mind, and I am homesick. I stopped because I could not walk any more.

And then, when I had been stopped enough, I started walking again.

Once again my heart howls. I've had such high times that the strategies of handling a howling heart have fallen by the wayside and I am out of practice.

Once again I must learn to be heard beyond that howling. There is nothing to do but cry in harmony, and relearn how to discover wonder in the mundane world.

My mind; my dictatorship.

Wonder, significance, meaning, resonance; these things can be hard to see at first, but eventually, with enough time, you learn how to see and everything becomes clear.

The Elephant and the Tortoise

The program for the Melbourne Writers Festival was released today. In the week leading up I tried to work up some enthusiasm, and got out my diary and pen when flicking through the schedule today. I jotted down a couple of items, and then...scribbled them out. That wasn't enough, so I whited them out too.

I kept asking myself why I was looking, why I was even thinking about the writers festival, when I am not writing, and therefore not a writer.

It hurts.

At the top of my thoughts is an obese flaccid white elephant that I'm doing my best to ignore and failing miserably. At some point during my slow fitting of the identity of writer I ruled that I would not be a "writer" by intention only. Writing is an act, and if nothing is produced then you're not a writer, you're a wannabe. A poser. Worse than someone with no luck and no skill, you're not even bothering to try. And in all honesty, there are better identities to fake than that of the shut-in-spending-all-day-in-your-head-making-shit-up home body, which is also easily confused as 'nutjob'.

Here I am. I'm not writing. I haven't opened my manuscript since returning from Tibet, nor have I given it a great deal of thought.

I'm scared.

It hurts, it still hurts, it hurts enough that I don't want to type, I don't want to type anything at all. Every now and then I try. I get brave and ballsy and start a blog post. They look long. Longish. Long enough you need to scroll even without photos. And they hurt. I wince and flinch and stop too often to flex and stretch and take the edge off.

I can't write like this. I can't immerse myself in anything if all I'm thinking about is how much my wrists hurt and how much more they'll hurt by the end.

I'm afraid to try and work on my manuscript, because I'm afraid I won't be able to at all.

Do.

Or do not.

There must be something else. This white elephant just sits there, not saying a thing yet all the while asking, "If you're not a writer, then what are you?"

I have to be something else, I have to do something else, I have to. Writing shapes my whole life. Everything I do, decide, consume, no matter how random or trivial or unrelated to anything of significance, it's all collected because I might need it later. It will out in a story, inevitably. That is the purpose I have given my life.

It is not enough to merely live.

Whenever I tackle the elephant the possibilities I feed it aren't big enough to fill the void that writing will leave. Sometimes I wonder if it is defeatist thinking. There are many who have had their dreams thwarted only to discover alternate ones that are just as rewarding, but.

Always the but.

The only thing I can think of that would consume me, shape my every waking thought and colour my whole existence is to have children.

Which is a whole other elephant I don't want to acknowledge.

I just spent $500 on ergonomic equipment. I'm using it now, and have lasted longer than I would have before, but that may simply be rum taking the edge off. This sweet little tortoise of hope peeked out of its shell when the packages arrived, because maybe this will make enough of a difference that I won't have to tackle the elephant at all.

This tortoise has peeked out before. This tortoise has been crushed before.

I don't want to do this any more.

The Bachelor

A co-worker asked me what was for dinner tonight. "Probably peanut butter toast," I said, without really thinking. "That's, um...nutritious." She disapproved of my dinner, I think.

Someone completely unrelated told me I was "such a teenager" upon hearing of my dinner practices.

First of all, I live alone. Cooking for one is not worth the hassle. There's no one else to do the dishes either.
Second, dinner isn't my big meal for the day. Lunch is, it makes more sense. After work I get home and sit here, so eating a proper cooked meal seems like a waste of food-converted-into-energy.
Third, I'm not a teenager.

I'm a bachelor, and I shall bloody well live like one.

And I happen to really like peanut butter toast.

Normally I'd have a cup of tea with my peanut butter toast, but tonight I'm having grog. The official definition of grog is watered down rum. I have no mixers nor the motivation to go out and get any.

The cobbler on Lonsdale Street is quite a straight-faced gruff man, and with his rich and abrupt accent from the heart of Eastern Europe he can come across as just plain grumpy. I suspected first impressions were misleading, and my suspicions were rewarded with him gently insisting that my quiet Friday night at home must have one glass of red wine. At least one.

I don't have any red wine, or any wine at all, as I have no palate for the stuff. The grog is a crude bacheloresque substitute, as I always do what I'm told.

Now I'm going to walk around with no pants on and drink milk from the carton.

"Wait. Tess. The one with the lesbian tendancies?"

For the record, my sexual orientation is "bi-apathetic", which can be defined as I DON'T CARE.

"Only amateurs love everything they write." - Robert McKee

The above was twat (hereby past tense of tweet) by Deborah Biancotti last night, and struck a chord with me. I am not a musician, so it was not a very good chord, but a chord none the less.

I'm belly deep in revisions on this sorry sack of soggy scrotum. Revisions are normally painful, as it becomes apparent how much work you have to do to get the draft you wrote to match the Amazing Wonder Power Masterpiece you have envisioned in your head. Typically there is a lot of work. A lot. Of work.

And angst. Lots of that too.

Which I expect, but this time has been harder than usual because, unfortunately, I like this story.

I mean, I like like it. You know. Really.

You know, when you were in school and just starting to think about boys/girls and had a crush on someone, and it was a totally unreasonable crush, there was nothing attractive about this person at all, they were not your type and you never even had the chance to say 'excuse me' when passing them in the hall, but that was irrelevant because you liked them.

This lack of contact meant you'd constructed an image of them in your mind, which was exactly what you wanted them to be. Anything the real person did that contravened that was conveniently ignored for the sake of this daydream, and you couldn't handle any of your friends slagging this person off because that was also in contravention, and you plastered over every such thing and continued blindly on, until the dream wears out and you realise just what a dumbass you've been and omg so embarrassing why did you even admit to liking them?

The fact that I like this story means I can't trust myself with it.

My perspective is skewed, I'm more likely to forgive its flaws, instead of honing in on them and tearing them out with my shark teeth. Hell, I'm so biased I can't even see the flaws (sharks don't have great vision). I'm sensitive to any critique of the damn thing, so I'm arcing up instead of listening and taking that advice.

I am pissing myself off.

How am I supposed to make this story as good as I want it to be if I can't see it properly?

Normally, I don't like my stories. I get excited about them, absolutely. I believe they're worth writing or I wouldn't even start them. I have great fun in exploring them, and I like the challenge, and the (hopefully) final conquest.

But I don't like them, not in that starry-eyed sense.

Much as I hesitate to state any sort of opinion that whiffs of authority, much as I dislike using the word 'should', I'm going to do both, and say this is not the sort of relationship a writer should have with their work.

Tailend revisions should be about breaking up with the work. You need to put distance in, so you can improve it, make it as good as it's going to be, and because you are letting go. Once a story is finished, once it's done and you are not in a position to change anything else in it, nor is there anything left to change, it isn't yours any more. You're the writer. Now you've written it, it isn't being written, it has turned into something to be read.

And readers are going to wade in and read it and not give a shit about you and your sad embarrassing little crush on your story.

It's time to start writing something else.

Thought Devices, Survival, and Romance (the Myth of)

I was having a chat to one of my (many) writer friends, who shared with me the following assumption as spouted by a non-creative person;

"Wow, to write every day you must really love writing!"

Which, upon hearing, gave me pause.

As another writer friend (there are so many of you, you're like rabbits!) noted, there is a tendency for non-creative types to romanticise it all. Which is probably true, but in this instance, beside the point.

It made me wonder, if I do not love writing, then how do I feel about it? It does not ask why I write, although the answer relies upon that question as well.

Love is not at all the right word. It is not incorrect, so much as inaccurate. The relation does not apply, like describing the taste of sausage as 'firetruck'. There are times I do love writing, but they're not often, and generally isolated incidents. Writing itself, I do not love.

I don't hate it either. Even when I'm sunk in revision rage. Even when I'm uninspired and don't know what I'm doing. Even when it takes me to a place I don't want to go. Even when I know all I've produced is drek and slurry and dessicated story abortions. Hate is merely the flip side of love, and as applicable as 'firetruck'.

Which sees me end up back at that eternal question: why do I write? Some people like chasing down that answer. I don't. I don't need to know why, because the why is entirely irrelevant. I have no great goals for my writing. There was a time I aimed at contracts with major publishing houses and awards, but those targets have long been discarded. I have to admit, once I've finished writing a story to my satisfaction, I lose interest in it entirely. What happens afterward, whether it be published or not, is not a process I have much emotion or ambition invested in. Publishing successes are pleasing, publishing failures are a pity, but they're only minor after shocks following in the wake of the mindquake the actual writing caused.

Another writing friend, after mulling over the question of why we write if we do not, in fact, love it, mused that it was almost an obsessive compulsive act, which I guess could be true of some writers. What really resonated with me, however, was the comment that writing made them feel like a better, more functional, person.

Writing makes me not want to kill myself quite so much.

Which is melodramatic to say the least.

But true.

I have never not written. Others may talk of when they started and how long they've been writing for. I never started. I simply never stopped. Writing has always been a part of my life, so integral to my existence that I frequently forget it is there, that it is something I should perhaps mention, that other people don't write.

As a result, I don't think my mind knows how to function in any other manner. It is conditioned to seek the story in all things, hardwired to put information in an order that makes the most narrative sense, programmed to put words beside other words and seek the right place to put the right beat to have the greatest impact.

It is not limited to fiction. I have decades of diaries and journals. I still keep a private diary, and in it are terrible, shameful things, all the things I could not say and so had no choice but to write out of my system. I'm still writing things out. I will never stop draining myself through words, because to stop would be to suffocate, and to suffocate would be to die.

Even writing such blog posts as this, the mere act of constructing sentences to form paragraphs to say what I mean, there is succor in this process. There is a temporary relief to be gained in occupying myself with seeking a precision of emotion, a clarity of purpose, a duality of meaning, an accuracy of structure, in these sentences. I can immerse myself in writing as with no other task. There is some small sanctuary to be found in the process, a retreating of all the voices that would swamp me, because I have control of this voice. Of my voice.

Writing is, I suppose, not something I choose to do, no more than I choose to have a forehead. It simply is.

Thus, I have come to the following conclusions:

Why I Write: N/A
How I Feel About Writing: Firetruck

For the record, I have no issue with my forehead either.

The Tortured, Impoverised, Starving, Whinging, Self-Pitying Arteeeeest

(aka, Week Four of beard growing attempt)

Oh Porker, there you are, hello Porker.

OMG HI!

Are you okay, Porker, how you doing? Have I told you you're my best friend, Porker? I love you, Porker, no, seriously mate, I love you. You're my best friend. Only you understand me, Porker, only you.

OMG wow really that's so cool thanks so much wow!

I'm having a terrible time, Porker, I really am, just terrible, terrible.

OMG oh noes really that's terrible!

Badly timed bills, Porker. I could have made it through the fortnight on $300, but my health insurance bill turned up. Badly timed bills, Porker. Badly timed.

OMG that totally liek sux!

Truly it does, Porker.

OMG you should totally do something to cheer yourself up!

I am, Porker, I am. I'm going to see School of Seven Bells tonight, they're playing at the Corner.

OMG that's great wow!

...they don't start their set till 11.30.

OMG cool!

They don't finish their set till 12.30.

OMG wow!

Porker, that's after the trains have stopped. I'll have to take a taxi home.

OMG cool!

No that's not cool, Porker!

OMG really wow that sux bad what will you do?

Go anyway. I'll just cut the beans out of my diet and live on rice. It's fine. I'm okay, Porker. That's why we have credit cards, right? In case of emergencies (and vaccinations). But oh, that's not the end of it.

OMG no wai!

Eighty-three thousand, three hundred and seventy-four words into this story, Porker, that's a long way in. That's good, Porker, real good. But it's a real bad place to make a mistake.

OMG really?

I made a terrible mistake, Porker, a terrible mistake. A mistake that renders at least the last five thousand words null and void and not covered by warranty, possibly even more than that, and makes utterly useless all that is to come that I've plotted out, and oh, Porker, what have I done? What have I done? What am I going to do?

OMG really what are you going to do?

The only thing I can do, Porker: keep drinking.

OMG wow yes that makes sense what happened to your face?

What?

OMG your face your face!



Oh, this? Yes. This five o'clock (six fifty-two, to be precise) shadow. Yes. This is what happens to artists who are caught up in the passion of the craft. They get hairy. And drunk.

OMG.

OMG, indeed, OMG.

thirteen days to get by

I have been paid I have paid (some of) my bills and I think I'll just keep drinking. And if the little pig even thinks about acting as my conscience, I'll set the fucker on fire.

Here is a video of a song that doesn't sound like that when I listen to it;



And here is a site I'll just leave here. You can click on it if you like. Or don't click on it. Doesn't bother me. dinosaursfuckingrobots.com

Tomorrow is a great day for a hangover.

Weird Tales & Hugo are most definitely sitting in a tree...

For the first time evah Weird Tales has been nominated for a Hugo! GO TEAM!

Now all that's left is for the people who can vote to go ahead and vote. Vote! If you don't agree with who wins and haven't voted, then you lose all rights to whinge about it. Can you imagine a worse fate? No, you can't. So vote! Vote for what you love and what you care about. And if you don't care or love, well your heart is a dessicated flea, you can vote on my behalf instead. Weird Tales all the way, baby.

I'm half way through the current issue, and am loving it. It's a very, very strong issue, immensely delicious. Stories I've read appear in it, so for the first time, I feel like I've almost earned having my name in the staff section. It'll also give you an idea of what timescale the publishing industry moves to, as I read these stories over a year ago.

I have one (1) copy spare. Just one. So, if this fine example of printed reading material was in a safe stored on a Russian nuclear submarine which has been sunk and is lying, airtight, at the bottom of the ocean, how would you go about securing possession it? Go on, grave robbers and treasure hunters and crazy people, get inventive! Bonus points for taking out your competitors. Shall pick a winner in a week.

While this isn't NSFW, I don't think it's entirely SFW.

Gakked from Deep Sea News; a video of flat worms mating.

It's known as penis fencing, and the worms are the swordsmen. From the midsection of each flat worm, double daggers protrude. Each dagger is actually a penis.

Dude. Dude. I totally lol'd. Probably because I don't see a lot of difference between flat worm and human sex. The only difference being, half the population is unarmed.

Gakked from Zooillogix; seed beetles have the scariest penis in the world.

A new study of C. maculatus seed beetles has proven the worst case scenario for most men: size and in this case the number of painful, injuring spikes on their penises do in fact matter. The C. maculatus have a series of spikes and barbs on their members that, during sex, become embedded in their mates, acting as anchors of sorts.

AAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaa...No comment. I don't need to comment. It speaks for itself.

Penis. Funny stuff.

Shall we talk about something else? I'm going to talk about my vagina. I HAVE MY PERIOD. A real, honest to goodness tides of blood period! I'm a real boy ovary storage cupboard!

This is my first proper period since going off the pill in September. Six months, if you're counting. Prior to this, I've had two other half periods, which weren't really periods, wimpy little messes they were, barely worth the effort. Bah. They came with no other symptoms either, just a mess.

This period I class as 'real' precisely because its coming was heralded by the Harbinger Headache, which wasted no time turning into a Muthafucking Migraine. Had another mild headache today.

Bugger. Was seriously hoping going off the pill would get solve the migraine issue. Oh well.

Have also been cramping, which is an entirely new and exciting experience. And by exciting, I mean uncomfortable. I am hoping these do not get worse with time.

Other than lacking the whole monthly bleeding from the vagina thing, going of the pill was a simply super move. Depressive traits have lessened. Somewhat. That they have lessened, but that I have not suddenly become a little ray of sunshine, indicates that I'm just stuck with this lousy personality. Oh well. It's worth it. Every little bit helps. Never ever ever ever ever ever going back on the pill. Which means condoms for the rest of my life. Oh well. It's worth it. It's so worth it. I bounce back faster. I let go quicker. I don't sink so fast. These things still happen, but it's worth it.

Tomorrow is a great day for a hangover.

Advice For Writers*

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, and the instructions specifically state that two people are required to put the item together, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, the instructions specifically state that two people are required to put the item together, and indeed you are alone, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, the instructions specifically state that two people are required to put the item together, indeed you are alone, and you're tired and brooding, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

When you buy furniture from Ikea, and all the pieces required for assembly come in three separate boxes, none of which you're strong enough to lift, the instructions specifically state that two people are required to put the item together, indeed you are alone, you're tired and brooding, and you're drunk, this means you should not invoke Constructorsaurus on your own.

No, really.

Also the hammering pisses the neighbours off.

Still, partly assembled shelves make good cubby houses.



I expect I'll have to invoke Constructorsaurus for weeks to get this finished.

To add insult to injury, when pouring myself a drink, I ran out of mixer. First run out of drink, now out of mixer. Venture out to buy more? In this cold, wet, miserable night? I'm already doing cold and miserable just fine, no need for a hat trick.

I declare today over.

*by 'writers' I do of course mean 'everyone'.

Presents!

SATAY. You see? Looks like vomit. And shit. Smells like fabulous, tastes like fucking fabulous ON A STICK. Dad, who was born in Malaysia and thus has a well-trained palate in this area, made a lot of grunting noises when eating, and ended up with the largest pile of sticks on his plate at the end, ergo, recipe is now tested and certified fabulous.


Mum made up skewers of apricots, prunes, and chicken liver wrapped in bacon, which I admit when she first mentioned, I was highly dubious of. But then we popped them on the barbie, and they smelt great, and then I ate one and it tasted even better. Seriously unexpectedly amazing, and did not look like vomit as I had nothing to do with the creation.

Dad also taught me a neat trick for reviving cucumber that's gone a little soft; soak it in a little vinegar for a while. Makes it crunchy again. 'cause you can't have satay without cucumber.

I took some pictures of the trifle, but the trifle was such a monster, such a behemoth, such a blasphemy against the order of the universe that even Lovecraft would pause and say, come on now, that's getting a bit silly, and the pictures didn't really do it justice and it's probably for the best that such an unholy creation remain unrecorded.

It looked like vomit AND snot AND blood clots. Tasted like miracle vunderbar! I won't use shop bought custard again though. It was too runny, and didn't set like a trifle is supposed to.


Poor Sam got a grass seed stuck in his paw a couple of days ago. Very minor, but it did require taking him to the vets and having them knock him out in order to remove it. IT IS ENORMOUS. The vet gave it to us, for some reason, it's sitting by the fruit bowl. We've taken to calling it the Demon Seed. Sam isn't allowed to lick his paw, hence the collar. We alternate between calling him Bucket, Satellite Dish and Space Dog. Well, I call him Space Dog. Mum doesn't like it, as it makes her think of Laika. He's not a victim of human science, however, he's a Space Dog like a cool frood, taking your messages from Mars, hullo, you've reached Planet Tessa, Canine Branch, How May I Help Ewe? SO CUTE.

As the subject line indicates, I have a present for you, should you wish to have one. Namely, recipe for Fabulous Satay, as given to Mum by one Audrey Wong more than twenty years ago. Thank you, Audrey, whoever and whereever you are!

Printed on type-writer, copied on thermal paper, and to continue the tradition, photographed and uploaded, for your nomming pleasure. Click for the larger picture.

Dear World, My Dearest World

It's not all rose-tinted. I know what streets not to walk down, I even know which side of the street not to walk on. I know what people to give a wide berth, without making it obvious I'm giving them I wide berth. I know how to be invisible in plain sight. I chose this suburb over other suburbs precisely because I knew I could walk through it at night without it being an exercise in stupidity. I do not go out of my way to put myself in harm's way - that's not my way.

When I went to leave, there were cries of no, don't be silly, just wait, someone will give you a lift. People were having fun with karaoke and the amazing dessert spread, and in truth, I wanted the walk. I told them to stay put and carry on.

They kept at it, far beyond the point of courtesy. It was as if the idea of walking as anathema to them, and I laughed and told them they were allergic to it.

Instead, they pulled out the safety card.

The people who tell me that walking alone at night is unsafe, that traveling on the trains is unsafe, are the people who don't, who never have.

I want to tell them that they have no idea what they are missing out on, but they wouldn't understand if I did, because they really have no idea, cannot even grasp the edge of it.

It was a perfect evening for walking. The air was cool, the late afternoon rain having washed the heat and dust from it, filling the world with that too-rare smell of water. It was that quiet in-between hour, the sun having set without the night moving in, people sitting and still in their dining rooms. The sky was a thousand shades of pearl and down and mist. The crickets were out. I was out. It was a perfect evening for walking.

I can't tell you the moments I've stumbled upon while walking alone or sitting on the train by myself. Little pieces of...something. I could read meaning into them, I suppose, but they don't require it. They're not love, peace, beauty, or anything so easy to label. They're not secret. They're not hidden. They're just little moments. Some of them are sad, some are confronting, some of them are joyous; all of them are amazing.

I suppose putting myself in a position to encounter such things is my way of worship, if such a word could ever be applied to me, and in doing so I strengthen my faith, for I know of no other word to use. There will always be something else, something that isn't new or brilliant or shocking, just something that you can only find in this place at this time with this air, and once you've gone by you'll never be able to get into that moment again. These instances make life worth living, and the world worth living in.

And so, to those who cast me dubious, dismissive, scornful and worried looks, I understand you. I do. I would love the convenience of a car. One day I will get jumped, mugged and/or raped, and at that time I'll wish I had the security of a locked door and the control a steering wheel and pedal offer.

One of the things that makes the streets a scary place to walk is that people are scared to walk in them. If you are afraid, then there will be something for you to be afraid of. You could be attacked by strangers. You could have your phone stolen. You could be beaten and left bleeding under the street lights. These are real things. If you like, you can be afraid of them.

You could very well see a giant smiley face in the stars. You could find genius graffiti amid the real estate signs. You could smell honeysuckle in the twilight. You could catch a glimpse through an open door of someone playing the piano. You could meet someone worth meeting. You could find peace of mind walking down the middle of an empty road in the twilight. These are real things too, and for me there was never, has never been any choice to make.

It was never about safety.

You'll miss these things if you're moving too fast. I suppose, if you live without these things, you won't be looking for them, you may not even need them in your life. That in itself is a sad moment, because I can't help but want to share these little discoveries. They are important, not even that, they're precious, and for this reason alone - not convenience safety environment money health - I will never own a car. I don't pass through the world; the world passes through me, and I'm a better person for it.

A shooting star!






Or a drunk and very lost firefly.










Or I'm drunk and seeing dancing lights.

In any case, it was a partial second of delight.

"Tomorrow, I think, is a great day to go to work hungover."

i'm durnk. that'is all.