Metaphor much?

"What are you doing?"

"I'm looking for a black t-shirt in a drawer full of black t-shirts."

"Oh."






"Want to talk about it?"

"Shut up."

"Just trying to be friendly."

"Well, my advice to you is: stick to what you're good at."

Feeling sharky. Feeling shitty.

Some days you're the Great White Muthafuckin' Shark, and some days you're a weeny little diver trapped in a tinfoil cage getting shat upon.

(This week I have not been the shark.)

(Nor the diver.)

(I am shit, and et by fishes.)

Schrödinger's Tessa

Music that is loud, unrepentant and live, no, alive, and awesomely alive at that, music so loud it fills your mind and leaves no space for you to think even the smallest of thoughts, music that makes your hair shiver and your ribs ache and for which you cannot help but grin manically, shout incoherently, and be saturated by it, no, not saturated, by absorbed by the music until you are nothing and it is everything. That is catharsis. That is clensing, purging, hell, an enema for the mind as all the shit gets blasted out and lost in the bass line.

That's what I expect of live music, and perhaps sadly what I need of it as well.

I was standing in the Corner Hotel last week. It was a Tuesday night, and I was alone in the crush of bodies before the stage, too hot but armed with water, mindful of those around me, resigned to tall people in front of me, and the band was good, they were fantastic at what they did, an incredibly tight and smooth performance with unebbing energy, but-

But.




How to say this. My grip on my voice is uncertain of late, voice being such a slippery thing and I no longer have gentle confidant hands, I'm clutching and snatching too quick too tight and it's getting away from me.

How to say; I did not go away. How to say; I was neither saturated nor absorbed. How to say; I stood in the music, and apart from it.

I was waiting to be filled and full of something other than me, and so have some brief respite from the self-absorbed burden of being me. The spaces inside me were near quivering with anticipation of that storm of sound to come in and blow all the detritus of doubt and fear away and sweep all clean and clear, and those spaces waited, and waited, as the music beat in my bones and blood and came nowhere near me.

It's hard to control that little upwell of panic when one of your crutches breaks.

I kept moving. You can't help but respond to such volume when those around you answer the same call, but my hands were in fists and my teeth were clenched and I was already writing this post over and over, trying to define what it was that...what it was, what any of it was.

The invasion of living music into the mind serves not only as a clensing and purging process, it presents also the opportunity for a controlled instance of recognition. That is, the loss of self is defined as being the loss of the conscious and self-aware self, which in turns allows the unconscious and instinctive self a moment to rise to the surface and free of conscious oppression, be heard.

When the idea of Tessa is put aside, even for a moment, then foundations upon which that idea is constructed are bared.

That is my howling heart, resonating with the roar in my blood and bones, roaring free and uninhibited and anonymous in the roar of a hundred other voices.

I could almost feel it, almost, thrashing and gnashing and trying to get out get out get free. Here and there, in snatched moments, the music echoed something inside, for a moment there was synchronicity, but only for a moment. The show ended, and my howling heart had not surfaced.

This is perhaps an extreme example of the state of affairs of late. I find that I am fine, yes, I am fine. I feel solid and whole and well, and there are no undercurrents I am actively monitoring. But this being okay is, is, it isn't an illusion, it isn't a sham but it is. It is. It takes so little to rip everything out from beneath me, everything, with such swiftness and thoroughness and savagery I'm left gasping not only from the sting of whatever the world saw fit to slash me with, but with the seeming betrayal of my own self that it should collapse so easily, without even the semblance of resistance.

It is hard to trust myself, knowing that my limits are very much changed, yet still not being familiar with them, having as yet developed no understanding of how they lie and what weaknesses they possess, being now wary of anything and everything, for I do not know what will prove to be a fatal blow and set me back again and again and again.

Not knowing myself is a strange thing. It frightens me. A thorough understanding of myself and all my whys is the only certainty I've had, the only map and compass by which to navigate.

But it, I, it, that howling heart, it is still there. I felt it distant but straining in the music. I will feel it when looking at the carpet in my lounge room, or opening the fridge cabinet in the supermarket, or reaching for the phone at work. It is still there. It is still howling.

It is as though it is in a glass box. Double-glazed to keep the sound out in, of course. I'm sitting here at my desk, typing gingerly with my nerves sawing in my wrists, and this glass box sitting before me. It has no seams. Inside, my heart is a snarling, furious thing, all peeled lip and broken teeth. Thrashing and throwing itself against the glass when I fold my arms on the desk and rest my chin on them, trying to break that glass and have at me. It is so upset. There is such hurt, distress and rage in that wild mean little heart.

As it has always been, I suppose.

But.

I can't hear you, and so I don't know how to sooth you.

I've been trawling through my music trying to find something that will, without volume, let you out. Even just for a moment, even now, at 12.17 on a Monday with the sun out and lawnmowers in the distance. I think that, if I find the right music, if I find the right emotive harmonic that is the same frequency at which you howl, with combined resonance from inside and out we may shatter that glass box and set you free.

But that is wrong. It is old habit for me to assume that which is within me is mine to change. The glass box is an alien intervention. To remove it, I need only stop taking the medication.

I am afraid, my howling heart, of not being able to read you and interpret you, I'm afraid that not having that understanding and thus not having that control over you means you will find ways out over which I have no power. I am afraid of not knowing myself.

I am certain, if I were to remove the glass box, that the understanding would not help me at all. I am certain I would not be able to contain you by mere force of will alone. I am certain you would devour me.

Who is in the box, you or me? Are we dead when you are in the box, or when you are free?

I wanted the anguish to be gone, yes. I couldn't carry it any more. But not like this.

I didn't want you cut out. I wanted you to feel better.

The Horse Leg/Goat Leg Yin-yang in the Carpark

I knew I shouldn't have put in writing that I was actually having a good time. The Will of the Cosmos reads my blog, and the Will of the Cosmos is a bit of an arsehole.

Somewhere between Paryang and Saga, a town that refused to give up its name.

There is no more terrifying a height than hope.

The Things We Forget

Two splendid people who live very far from me conspired to send this penguinous card to me. It landed on Friday, I opened the envelope, read the edit on the front and went, "...oh yeah!"

I'd totally forgotten that my Not Birthday was coming. I checked my diary, and discovered I hadn't written it in. I wonder if that was intentional? Maybe, at the beginning of the year when I was jotting down all the good and proper birthdays of awesome people, I looked at that particular date and decided that it didn't need marking.

Who knows. It worked, at any rate. I had forgotten. And now that I've remembered...I'm kinda proud of myself for forgetting. Somethings don't need to be held tightly all the time.

But. Well. You know. Any excuse for birthday celebrations, right? I've auto-scheduled this to post on the proper Not Birthday date, because on this day, I will be in Monterey Bay, at the aquarium, feeding sea otters (feeding brilliant animals seems to be a birthday thing of mine), and then I'll be heading up to the start of WFC, to see a whole lot of people who are most excellent and attend launches for a book I have a piece in and another couple of books I quite adore.

Pretty awesome day, no?

(I may have to take steps to ensure cake is present.)

Current Mood:

(gakked from zooillogix)

Sometimes the bird/windscreen metaphor just doesn't cut it.

It is possible to be opposing viewpoints simultaneously. When I say I feel like this video, I mean both the eagle and the mountain goat. It's the act, that terrible moment of release. There is no going back.

Tilt Shift

I've spent the last seven months looking at cloud patterns, stars, sun sets, birds, wind, rainbows, sunshine and all the marvelous wondrous things in the sky. I've been so distracted that I forgot I was standing on the edge of a cliff.

Suddenly, all I can see is the abyss opening up below me.

Nothing has changed. I have not moved. The hole has always been there.













When enough time passes, I will remember that nothing has changed, I have not moved, the sky has always been there.

2:44pm Wednesday 17th June 2009 and we stopped holding our breath.

10:49pm Tuesday 16th June 2009, and the day is ended.

The Things I Think About (when I'm not thinking about you)

Shit, I forgot to get toothpaste.

Strange Days

Smoke changes the sun rise, the light of noon, the whole world. Our surroundings are nothing but light bouncing. The light is different.

There have been earthquakes and mindquakes these last couple of weeks. Some of it even turned into turbulence, and fear is so quick to slide a hand in and put the choke on. I'm not choked. That's reassuring.

Still, I remember knives. How quick I was to slide a mind over and grip the blades.

Shall be incommunicado for a few days. Not, I admit, that I've been in communicado much of late. Poor blog. You've been so quick to slide down the priorities list when fiction fiction fiction beckons. I guess I'm weary of dissecting my life.

No fear. I'm sure that's another dirty habit I'll come back to before long.

Today is not my birthday. Again.

I don't have any cake, or any candles for that matter, with which to repeat the Flaming Lamington Fortress of last year, so I've made do with a couple of bits of bread and nutella.



Nom nom nom.

I'm split 50/50 on whether or not to acknowledge the date. Keeping mum is an admission that events some eleven years ago still affect me, and remarking on it here is the same, only public. But, well, any excuse to eat nutella, I say. Which is the whole motivation behind the exercise.

oh, she found a hangover to hide under

Letters from India: Serving the Goddess looks at the lives of current day devadasi, a class of sacred sex workers who ply their trade in the name of Yellamma. It is devastating, the lack of choice many of the women who become devadasi had, and then heartening, the way some of them use their position to their advantage and improve things not just in their own lives, but that of friends and family, and then devastating again, because no matter how they try, it can only end badly.

On a Wednesday Night

Each text message I receive is a Big Event, as they're as rare as rocking horse shit. This text message is from my mother, and it reads "So this is what the inside of a black hole is like. Looks familiar".

I stare at this message for a very long time. My mum just sent me the most depressing text in the history of history. I don't know what to do. Should I go home? Today was her chemo-on day, maybe she's having a bad time.

No, this isn't mum's style, not her style at all. I have no idea what she's talking about. But what if she's flipped out, like really flipped out so much she'd send out of character and emo as all fuck text messages? This is serious. Should I go home?

No, really, no that can't be it.

But-

Wait.

"are you talking about that collider thing in France?

"Yes. It happened about 2 hours ago."

Ah.

A Yankee In London: From Hell Chapter Four Walking And Riding Tour is the report of one person following the steps of Sir William Gull and his driver Netley as they trot about London and Gull freaks poor Netley out with his vast conspiracy and ritual talk. It goes through many churches and sites of significant cultural, historical, and religious events, and on reading the chapter it is hard not to believe the whole shebang. Taking the tour today sounds slightly less magnificent than when Gull and Netley did so, but it remains an interesting read. That particular chapter of From Hell is my favourite, seeing it mapped out in photos is a treat.

On A Saturday Morning

I spend two minutes of my life waiting for the kettle to boil, and that is all those two minutes contain. The kettle clicks. I put the teabag in the cup, and pour boiling water, and little black shapes come whirling up in the currents.

At first I assume they're escaped tea leaves, but on closer inspection they turn out to be ants. Boiled alive. Six of them.

There are no ants in the tea box when I check it, and there were none in the cup. They must have been in the kettle. That could mean the insecticide I sprayed about got in the kettle as well.

I spend another minute of my life considering whether or not to drink this cup of tea, six dead ants and insecticide, and that is all that one minute contains.

As far as merchandise goes, I would love to have this t-shirt. Although the lack of visible collars bothers me. Ties without collars just don't work.

In the Sunday Smallhours

There's blood all over the toilet paper.

Ah.

Surprise blood isn't that surprising any more. There's plenty of reasons to start randomly bleeding from the vagina. This blood isn't the colour of menstrual blood, it's brighter.

Maybe going off the pill brought it on. Maybe stress brought it on. Maybe a night full of alcohol brought it on.

Let's be honest, it's probably all three.

Let's be even more honest, I don't care.

NIN Dazzles With Lasers, LEDs and Stealth Screens looks at the light and video set up involved in the current Nine Inch Nails tour. The amount of interaction between performers and stage set up is brilliant, to the point where they're not just playing instruments, they're playing the whole stage. There's a video included, showcasing some of the incredibly nifty stuff they've pulled off. One thing the video demonstrates is the sort of crowd that goes to these concerts. The dull roar of people not paying attention to the quieter pieces, who are impatient with the soft piano and just wanted to bang their heads up and down, this vexes me. They show no respect to the music. I love those pieces most of all. Were Trent Reznor to tour alone, playing only the piano at tiny little venues, there'd be no upper price on what I'd pay for a ticket.

On a Sunday Afternoon

I put the tea bag in the cup, and pour boiling water. One dead ant swirls in the currents. I watch it sink to the bottom.

An Exercise In Logic

Time is a guy.

I rather like Time, you know, in that way. Due to the current narrative laws of my life, this means that Time is charming and inconsiderate and never around. Where is Time? I want Time. I ain't gettin' any. There's shit I Need To Do and he's off somewhere else with other people and he's not even thinking about me.

That is Time.

All Hail The Shifting Gears

The Earth is in constant orbit of the Sun. Every day we've changed the angle the light hits us, and yet it only ever takes two or three days for the transition from the weak and distant winter sun to the brilliance and warmth of a real sun. Thump; and we have Spring.

Somewhere, deeper than molecules and cells, is the recognition that the Sun gives us life, winds up our lives and makes us go. We are no Pompeii Worms. It's hard not to be a flower in these early days, and turn with the spin of the Earth to face the Sun, where ever it is in the sky. I feel myself unfolding.

However Many Days Is Never Enough

Still life is not a relief.

So you've weathered the stormy seas, the swells have dropped and the winds died down and there's no more lightning and the thunder is only a distant grumble, not willing to leave entirely but prepared to leave you alone for now. You've weathered the storm.

Still life is not a relief. There's nothing to do now but try to clean up the wreckage and repair the damage and you're not up to the task. Maybe you didn't expect that.

It's a big knotty mess, and I'm picking at it and picking at it, because if I can unravel it, it will make sense, and if I can unravel it, then I must be able to make something positive out of it.

Maybe there is nothing positive to be made. No small triumph to be found. Nothing to make it worth the trouble.

It isn't the irresistible pain of a tooth ache. Treading the waters of these memories is a kick in the gut. I tell myself I go there over and over to make myself immune. I'm fooling myself. I'm just brooding, deepening the all the damage with needless repetition, and going nowhere.

Maybe there isn't yet enough time between then and now.

Maybe there never will be.

Heartache is radioactive. It leaks all over you, your life, you past and future. The depth of hurt correlates directly with the length of the half-life. The strength might decay over time, but it never disappears completely.

Ten years ago today

There's very little difference between a 16 year old Tessa and a 26 year old Tessa. One of them uses a hair dryer because failure to do so results in wet hair till evening. The other uses a hair dryer because she hasn't been able to break that habit, and doing so results in crazy sticky-uppy hair till evening.

The older Tessa has learned a lot since being the younger Tessa, but she hasn't learned how to change.

Here's to secrets you didn't know you kept until you couldn't say them out loud.

EDITED TO ADD: Thanks for the happy happys, but IT IS NOT MY BIRTHDAY. This post is about something that happened that I should probably be over by now, but apparently I'm not. There aren't any happy happys here.

However, if you want to keep going with the birthday thing, chocolate cake is prefered.

EDITED TO ADD SUMOR: See, this post wasn't even supposed to be this post. It was supposed to be another post that is still sitting in my drafts folder, which was much more thought-provoking and made a hell of a lot more sense. Really, it was going to change your world. I thought it was just something that didn't come up in polite conversation, or impolite conversation for that matter. Yet when I went to publish it, I couldn't. Turned out it was a secret.

Which isn't what I want it to be, but oh well.

EDITED TO ADD EVEN MOAR: I've been pondering this birthday that isn't my birthday (being as I'm at work, and thus have plenty of processor space to ponder such things), and I think you guys were onto a good thing. Unexpected birthday wishes are alarming at first, and then kinda warm and fluffy, like getting extra. So here's what I think; everyone should be allowed one day a year to declare birthdayness when there is no birthday, for the sole purpose of reclaiming an otherwise unwonderful date. Does that sound fabulous? I think it sounds fabulous. And since today is my not-birthday, then it is only fitting that I order indian for dinner, and not eat the leftover pasta that has defrosted and been sitting in the fridge for four days, which has nothing to do with my declaring this so. Nothing at all. I swear.

EDITED FOR CULINARY OBSERVATIONS: That chicken tikka misala was the best damn chicken tikka misala in the world. NOMMY. The chook was charcoal grilled, and had a delicate smokey flavour that went wonderfully with the coriander. The appearance of the best damn chicken tikkam misala in the world indicates that I'm right about all this not-birthdayness. There's even enough for dinner tomorrow. Most excellent!

EDITED FOR FURTHER PROOF OF FORESIGHTEDNESS: 'course, you can't have a not-birthday without birthday drinks. Good thing I bought a new bottle of Baileys on the way in. Premonition of alcohol required! Vexedness of lack of durnkness the previous night entirely irrelevent! Of course, I won't be able to touch it till I get home, and that won't be till after midnight, when it will no longer be my not-birthday, but you know what Winston Churchill said about never surrendering.

EDITED FOR SECOND THOUGHTS: The Baileys might not be such a good idea. If the bogans see me sitting on the train with a bottle of booze, they'll mug me. Maybe some creative shuffling will fit it in my bag...

EDITED FOR REASSURANCE: Bogans did not mug me. This not birthday is not over. More shinanigans in the morning.

EDITED FOR CLOSURE: It was only after I'd started on an enormous glass of Baileys, and thus disqualified myself from late night driving, that I realised I had no birthday cake. Calamity! Not that there are any 24-hour supermarkets in this area. I made do with what was to be had: lamingtons.

We didn't have any birthday candles either, so I made do with what was to be had: a box of lantern candles from Malaysia that aren't supposed to drip wax and have been in the kitchen drawer for longer than I can remember.



And then I got a bit carried away with the candles. In my mind, I was constructing a Lamington Fortress.

And then I set it on fire.





Apparently, lantern candles don't drip only if they stand vertically.



And if you stick them in on top of each other, the heat combines and then melt super fast, and thus the Flaming Lamington Fortress was in danger of burning down in a blaze of glory. I huffed, and I puffed, and I saved the Flaming Lamington Fortress.



What does that make me? Big goddamn hero.

Birthday cakes, whether or not it be your not-birthday, whether or not they be Flaming Lamington Fortresses, aren't supposed to be eaten alone. Unfortunately the house had gone to bed hours ago, so I gave in and shared it with Sam, who had been watching the whole mess with the intense focus of a Dog Who Has Maybe Noticed Food And Is Being A Very Good Boy. He was quite pleased to take part in the Flaming Lamington Fortress, and afterwards did this;



Can't argue with that.

Properly inebriated and caked, I spent the small hours watching bad movies, and failed to become maudlin, and didn't brood even once. That right there is an enormous and out-of-character accomplishment.

Now that this post has stretched over 24 hours, I think it's time to let it rest. Thank you, the three gentlemen who wished me happy birthday, and spawned it all.

I consider this not-birthday a raging success. Same time next year?