A Calendar Date: The World's About To End.

If the end of the world comes sooner than we originally planned. If the Mayans are correct. If everything combusts. If we're suddenly frozen in ice, or burnt alive in pits of fire. If we disappear suddenly, like we were sucked into a place of no return. If the wild horses run from the pages of the bible, and nash their teeth, and pull us to a place where we see only black. If there is nothing left to see.

I hope I spend the end of it somewhere important. With you. At a pretty lookout. Or by the fire. Or curled up somewhere safe. Where I know, that even if the world's on fire, I'm okay.

Swallow

Every time I think of you, it's as if I need to swallow my heart again.
It lifts and lifts and lifts.
Until I feel almost sick.
So I swallow.

Bear face. Deer heart.

Show Your Teeth.

I need to stop smiling so much.
It's making me look like an idiot.

Today We Were Explorers.

Today we were explorers in a big metal ship. Dust clung to the sides as we motored past seas of landscape. Filled with nothing. I loved that nothing more than all the other nothings put together. The touch of the lookout felt nothing like it had when I'd been there with someone else. This one fills the space. He gave it flavour. I laughed more than ever.

We parked and found our own hidey hole on the side of a cliff face, and you pointed out all the grooves in the walls that made them unique. Your eyes sparked like a small child, animated and completely captured in the moment, and I was happy. You tasted like gravy. Your hands were warm and your ears were cold.

We drove past the explorers tree, pausing. Momentarily.
It's really not all that impressive.

My couch was harder than the rock face we'd donned earlier. Battles raged on the tv screen and I couldn't help but feel content. Comfort comes to those with faith in mysterious ways. You were my comfort, because the couch was so very lacking. The words in my ear about lies you had told. The tight squeeze of the hand, and loud cracking of your back.

Today we were explorers.
Travellers. Sojourners. Foreign, but familiar landscapes.
Happy and timid and content and uneasy and so very very found.

Martin looks out on creation.

there was no doubt at all

Up on that rock, the smell was amazing. Wattle, shampoo and the gradually cooling mongolian lamb made me happier than the sun setting or the firmness of the ground I was standing on.

You are warmer than you could ever imagine.
Leaving no room for doubt.

Leave Me No Room For Doubt

I'm in between something solid and the comfort of old routine. I believe it's better than being in between a rock and a hard place. Then again, in this moment, I've never been more persuaded by, drawn to the rock. And I'm feeling an inexplicable urgency to figure my shit out, yet I want to stay in this moment for as long as possible.
I'm within, I'm without.

There are reminders around my house. A stray album cover, text messages and a partially folded blanket. A foreign-like fascination with Punk music. Big and little hands. Smiles. Winks. Finger grazes.
Leave me no room for doubt.


This is one of those places that you can know, before you find it. And you think, and you wish, and you pray, and you do all those little things that you do when no one is looking, and while you're hoping that you haven't been discovered doing some embarrassing ritual, you could consider that there is no room for doubt. That the rock or the hard place might be better than chilling in the middle all the time. There's only so many times you can change the paint colour of the fence you sit on.

Please speak slowly. Leave me no room for doubt.
-Lianne La Havas

Bluebells and Marigold.

I promise this roof’ll keep the rain out
of town and while you’re around I’ll
grow the daisies right out from under your feet:
you’ll be the happiest you’ve ever been,
when you’re at home with me.

This House Feels Really Big.

My brothers have become my friends now. It's a little odd. Since they've moved out, I enjoy their company more for sure. Thank God for the ageing process.

Notes For Later

This is all a note for later:

It's been a long time since I've thought of writing here. I've been slaying dragons, and getting new jobs, and losing old jobs, and being nervous, and happy, and so very very tired. I've decided a few things that I need to do, the main one being to move to Wales and live happily ever after in the cold and the green.

My coffee's gone cold. And that's not a metaphor.

This is just a post to ramble about a few things I've been thinking about. It's not supposed to be interesting or enlightening. This year I've become infinitely more nerdy. I am honestly planning on marrying Simon Lane from the Yogscast, and I don't care that he doesn't know that yet. Skyrim is ruling my existence at the moment, and schoolies is rapidly approaching. Tom Waits has a new album out. It was Ryan's birthday yesterday.

It's overcast, but dreadfully warm outside.
Embrace that shit.

Last Night.

Last night I dreamt I was hugging a dead man. And it's the most comfort I've felt in months. It was just so real. He was warm. And solid. And my nose caught slightly on his robbers ears as I cried into his shoulder.

I loved him.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Yeah.

Jeremy Fernandez

I take comfort in watching the news. It reminds me that things continue to function. Even if it is all disrupted or disorderly. Jeremy's tie made me smile today; an off pink contrasted to a dark brown suit, a horrid and pleasant combination added to with soothing pinstripes. He bares a small resemblance to a friend I once had, which is told to me frequently by family members.

"Yes I know it looks like him, Yep Yep I know."
On a side note, Dad pointed this out during dinner this evening. Again.

John Keats

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but will still keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

bronte

we will be with you and hold you till you're quiet, i know it hurt's to let go

Shocking News

One day you will wake up. You will eat breakfast. Depending on your hygiene standards, you may even shower. You'll go to work, and yell at several people over the phone. Lunch with the boss. Stressed. You'll be stuck in afternoon traffic and you'll call your significant other to tell them that you'll be late. Your children will go to soccer training. You'll enter the living room, with a nice cup of tea and then flick on the news.

And then, that's it. Your past. It's gone.
Reporter: Today at 12.03pm, Robin Williams has died.

THERE. WILL. GO. MY. CHILDHOOD.

--- Thus I propose a suggestion. Let us create technology to immortalise this man only. For ever and ever. Amen.

UNSW

I can see myself walking through the gardens, here. Listening to old voices and reading and reading and reading. Drinking with Benjamin.

Things will be good.

Roses Grow.

are you there where the good ones go? can you write me a letter? could you visit home?

I knew a man. He was known by his middle name. John. He was strong. Gentle. Tall. Broad. All the things a man should be. He was smart and loved and loved and loved. I have photo's of him in the army. Working on the planes he loved so much. He met his wife through his work, and passion never left either. He had a baritone. He sung harmonies with me. Of all the girls that are so smart, there's none like pretty Sally, she's the darling of my heart, and she lives in our alley... I used to sit on his lap and watch Wheel of Fortune. Sherbet lemons. Crosswords. Not allowed to touch the walls. Two minute noodles. Dinners on trays, so you could eat at the lounges.

"Sally.. You have warm hands today." - his eyes would twinkle.
"Sally.. Cold hands. You're just like your mother." - he'd hold me tight. His eyes would twinkle anyway.

They always did.


I haven't grasped that it was him in that coffin, you know. It was just a box to me. With flowers. Roses. Like his garden bed. It grows, and I wonder whether the flowers have forgotten him.. Are you too busy reaching for the warmth of the sun?

you could sit at the foot of my bed, and sing reassurances.. because I'm not sure of anything.

20

So my safety nets been fraying at the edges for a while now. The holes are getting bigger. And with one big punch to the face, and a couple of exams while they're at it, it'll break completely.
Nerve-wracking hey?

Lets see if someone will employ me, eh?

A.L.E.C.

No, it's not some boy in year eleven. It's Awkwardly Long Eye Contact. Recently, so many forms of awkward eye contact. Having trouble counting. There are two in particular.

I know a boy with beautiful eyes. Wide. Soft. Warm. And I find his gaze comforting. But he never breaks eye contact. I mean never breaks eye contact. Sometimes I wonder if his eyelids work properly. Or whether he's just making sure that he doesn't miss a single detail of what's being done. Maybe that's why its more rewarding to hug him. Because I'm not being so intensely viewed. Like surveillance, almost. Without the judgement.

The second event I have been thinking about none-stop since lunch. I had been playing the piano in Braur hall, and the room had been slowly filling with lunch-eaters. I stood and talked to Bec. She was distressed. This was eased, and some light hearted humour was exchanged from both sides. It was then that a lot of things happened quickly, and in slow motion. I reached out to brush the back of a friends hair. Male. Just got a haircut. You know the drill. He pulls me into a side hug, although a little more affectionate than normal side hugs are concerned. We hug like pros, there is no room for awkward hugging. It was over his shoulder where everything slowed down. For a couple of seconds. I gazed out across the expanse of the hall. Usual suspects filling the surroundings. Apart from one group I was shocked to find there. An individual was looking in my direction. He was looking at me. Watching how I was interacting with my friend. And then turned away. I wasn't quick enough for the shrug off, I had to run over to his group to ask a question. He didn't look at me. And he didn't speak to me.

I hoped for more eye-meetings across homeroom. I hope that I can make coherent sentences next time I speak. But I can't guarantee. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE don't have the wrong end of the stick. That's all I hope. Or want.

I wanna catch my death of cold, cause I'm scared of growing old. Don't return the love I gave.

You're still my favourite.

Guilty.

My eyelids are feeling heavy, but I really should have done more today. Guilty Guilty Guilty as Charged. :)

Let us go and fail the trials shall we?

#117

I keep having this dream. I don't know whether it means anything or not, but it just feels like it's important.

I have a light purple dress on. Long. With flowers. No shoes. It's warm, I think springtime. And I'm walking through this beautiful green countryside. Green countryside, like Ireland green countryside. It's beautifully quiet, very few trees near the dirt road and not a person in sight. I can see a house very far away.. and I'm walking toward it. It's not too big, but not too small. Quite narrow. A vine crawls up the sandstone to rest underneath the second story window. It's fenced with a little brown picket paling. I get closer, and I feel more calm, but more rushed at the same time. Enthusiastic. I walk in through the gate, with it squeaking familiarly and I walk up the path. The front of the house has three windows. Two big ones at the bottom level, and one on the top right hand side. It's a cream-washed building. I walk into the house, and it is fully furnished. Familiar.

No one is home.

So, I walk up the flight of stairs, and take a right into the bathroom. I wash my hands. The towel I dry them with is soft and white. Then, I walk back down the stairs, through the kitchen looking briefly for a note that I don't see. I don't know who I expect a note from, or why it doesn't worry me that it's not there. I proceed out the side door, through a garden of strawberry patches. They are ripe, but small. And I head out the back gate, jumping over a small stream as I leave the property.


It's nice. But I wonder what it means.

When you were little.

I knew you. When you were little. When you don't remember. You inspired me. You disappeared to another country. Spoke things that didn't make sense to me at the time. And I played and played and played, hoping that you would hear me learning the song you told me was your favourite. I lay in the grass one day in December.. or maybe it was early January. You asked me how I was. You cared. Care. That was special to me. I had met you, for five minutes.. and you cared.

I still play. Sometimes you listen.
I listen to your record too, sometimes.
For the record.

I still cannot work out poetry.

Poetry needs understanding through the senses.
The point of diving in a lake is not to immediately swim to the shore. But to be in the lake. To luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out. It's an experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept mystery.

Hello Sadness.

I think I have a little to talk about here. Sorry to Caitlin for using her I.P. title. It turns out that the 26th of August is a day to be put in the calendars. The second day of my stepping into big shoes. It'll be revolved around death.

There is a trial, that day. A boy who is hidden. A boy behind locks. A boy who speaks and can't speak. A blank report. It hasn't been released yet. The solicitors can't see it. We can't build a case. We can't construct an army. Make sand castles. Fortify walls. They won't let us. The low tide hasn't rolled out yet.
And it's making the blank-faced men quite nervous. Edgy. Some may have heard we love this hidden boy, and we know that it's true. I think of him often. I want to tell him, but I don't know whether he wants to know. Sometimes things are best left unsaid.

That day, they do not remain unsaid. That day, without verdict I speak. To a stage. On the ground level. While he is raised high, like a prophet or a martyr. I skulk to a bottom floor and hide amongst the cracks of the pavement, making note and talking like I have real experience. I do a terrible impersonation. My individual project makes me feel like gagging. At the beginning of this year I was excited to show my friends. Elated. Now I feel rude. Ashamed. I didn't know that this would all happen. And, I don't know whether I can do it justice.

Reality involves justice right? Where is my justice? And where is his?
Just release the coroners report. Please. Ease our minds. Take the weight from his shoulders.

Goodbye Childhood, Hello Briefcase.

Today I saw the end of my childhood on a movie screen. I cried a little. Sometimes it seems that it has come too quickly, or right on time. Maybe a little slow. But today, I am unsure where I stand. I'm not educated enough to make the right decisions, but I'm being shunted out the door. I can see a group of disgruntled elderly people. I KNOW that they are wrong. It is in their nature to pick and pry and torment, because they are unhappy. There are so many more of them now. And along will come the babyboomers. We are expected to feed them, and pay for them. You know, I would be happy to do so. I will be happy to do so, when the time comes.

As long as they respect our sacrifice. As long as they respect our views. And don't chase us half way down the freaking street because we vote for a different political party to you. Have some God Damn Respect.

Sometimes, old people make me angry.

A museum. A mausoleum.

Today I went to a house where many people live. Lived. Live. There were many children. They can't move out from the walls. Their hands reach out, stretch out for hope, grasping, tiny fists protruding from the cold cement. You'd only believe, really truly believe, if you saw it for yourself. And the children speak in wheezes because they've been covered, screaming for so long. David Irving preaches to the masses to mask their dismay. Hidden from view. Hidden from sight. Site. The sites are all but locked up. A couple remain open, but they are ghost towns. People hide their ghosts in them. I don't know whether there was more death when it was all running, or now that they are shut.

But the unreal solidness of the building speaks for itself:

COME AND SEE THE REAL THING, COME AND SEE THE REAL THING, COME AND SEE.

There is a barbed wire to keep us out. Next to this station. But I remember that there was also barbed wire to keep them in. They missed a few, the 'survivors'. But Frankl said that the "best of us did not survive". Yet there was this man when I got here. His eyes lit up the room, I couldn't help but smile. The voices of this stale room seemed to fade when he talked. The number on his arm seemed to be the only link to his solid, ghostly surrounds. He told me that:

EVERY DAY IS BEAUTIFUL.

At that moment, you'd find it hard to disagree. He grew up to be a charming man. From thin to a jovial roundness. He met his wife in Berlin I think it was. And she always waits for him.

But one thing that lingers, from that eerie solidness, from the crumbling density.. is the burning. The piles of burning books. Items of clothing. The smell. It invaded your senses. You could feel it on your skin. And the glow is there when you close your eyes.

"That was only a prelude, where they burn books, in the end it is men that they burn" Heinrich Heine.

Hello?

If you're there?

Just keep going. That's all you need to do. For you.
Just keep going.

Enough to make you.

Tonight I expressed some frustration.
Tonight my mother told me a story. Three months before Lady bowed her head, and took her leave, she met with a man. He was the third man below the Dalai Lama. And to her, he said:

You are enough.

Harridano.

Vincent Malloy is seven years old
He's always polite and does what he's told
For a boy his age, he's considerate and nice
But he wants to be just like Vincent Price

He doesn't mind living with his sister, dogs and cats
But he'd rather share a home with spiders and bats
There he could reflect on the horrors he's invented
And wander dark hallways, alone and tormented.

Today Reminds Me of Katy Perry

And no, it's not the whole: SUPRISE, I'M ACTUALLY A LESBIAN.
That really isn't going to happen any time soon. Her one of the boys album really has some rather depressing material on it. I cried in the film clip of 'Thinking of You'. That one was tricky, but beautiful. I guess today has been a day of coming to terms with things.

For starters, it was the suspended animation in which my friends profile resides. I expect him to come on, and say LOL JOKES I'm fine. But, it's been the same since April. He still 'lives' in Calabasas, California, and is still doing his degree. I know it's not true, but it just stays there, unchanged. It's like this frozen reminder.

And then their was the lady. Who passed away. It made me think of how much time we really have, and whether it's all proportionate. Which it isn't.



'Open me up,' he said to the surgeon, 'and tell me what is written on my bones.'

Lady.

They will sing for you tomorrow. In a big cold building, filled with pews and unease. My mother and brother will cry for you, and your son will watch the corner, his eyes never straying and a face of stone. Tomorrow they will toast for their love of you. Lady, tomorrow they will pray for the peace of you. That you sleep easy in both the winter and the summer, below the ground. Tomorrow there will be no dancing. Tomorrow, I'll think of your son with admiration and sorrow. He will make you proud, down here. Tomorrow, I'll observe your daughter, and wish that she knew you well enough. Tomorrow, her glasses will enlarge that which should not be. Her tears were not supposed to be, and you are supposed to be.

Tomorrow I will think of your husband. His quiet nature, perfect English mannerisms and narrow smile. They will be hidden. I hope that he may smile some time in the future. I hope that he will learn to be happy.

I'll pray for you, Lady. For your quiet ascent. But mostly I'll pray for your family. Your husband and your children. I see them suffer, Lady. While you have peace.


Peace you keep, Lady.
Peace you keep.

June on the West Coast.

My heart has thawed and continues to beat.

You make me pure, You make me pure, Oh I long to be with you! You make me pure, You make me pure, Oh I long to be with you!

Need.

I need a dollar dollar, dollar is what I need.

Today, I've been considering. Needs from want. It's like I'm trying to sort out this cluttered room, that has too many books. Not all the topics I like, but they are necessary. The ones I do like come in series. Some, I haven't started yet. It's the fact that I don't know whether they will turn out to have sequels and leave me hanging. Or if they just turn out to be the one, single volume. Brilliant read, beautiful language, good binding, stuff that changes you. Something that you will go back and read again and again and again.

There is this one. It's on the top shelf. I was born short, God most likely planned it for the shits and giggles.

Goodnight

I have lost my blanket. It's cold tonight. My socks are worn, and a little too small for me. But if I get new ones, I'm scared they won't fit. That I'll look silly.

And I've stored away all my summer clothing. I'm not looking at it right now. Sometimes I pull it from the shelf and inspect it. See if it's all there. Check whether it's changed. To see whether I can let it go, or whether I need to wear it under my piles of jackets and jumpers.

goodnight irene, irene goodnight, i'll see you in my dreams

A long long time ago

I used to think of someone a lot.
They messaged me today. Thinking of me from very far away.

That leaves me feeling rather content. Tonight is a good night. A very good night.

Among the fields of barley. #102

Will you be my love? Will you stay with me? Among the fields of barley? And you can tell the sun, in his jealous sky, when we walked in fields of gold.

I'm attempting to think back. Nothing, Nothing. It must be here somewhere. The memory. I've misplaced it. And the high modality of my sentence structure must give you a sense of its urgency. I may be lying. It's really not all that urgent. It's just leaving a heavy cloud over days. And I'd prefer some sunshine before my skin turns a sallow shade, and I become paler than I already am.

This sentence structure. It's. Quite erratic. Truncated almost. Elliptical. You know, I lined up two images. One that I held in my hand, and one that was held securely by my desktop screen. In those photos, we have aged dramatically. I was taller. Your face was more squashy. You smiled steadily and knew your place. I dreamt of becoming a famous musician and living in a trailer.

I'm trying to remember a day where I knew exactly what was going on in your head. When I fully understood you. A day where we ran from everything, and talked of nothing but kings and gold. I can't think of one. I want to say that you know me well, but it'd be lying.

I've written on the fogged windows of the bus to you. There are songs, and there are empty spaces. Mathematics General lapses into daydreams.

<3

Songbird

And the songbirds keep singing like they know the score, and I love you, I love you, I love you.. like never before.

That Rumours album had it down pat.
My room is quiet apart from the too loud tapping of my keyboard and the rumble of my Compaq's gears. My house is quiet apart from the flipping of light switches and the rustle of bed covers. I wish there was a way that I could emphasise the stillness of everything in this room.

I wish there was a way to convey the longing that I have for closing my eyes and having no weight on my shoulders. Nothing to tense my stomach, or read in the closed darkness after it's imprinted its image deeply in my eyes. Nothing to dream about, nothing to write about, nothing at all to even think.

Today, when I was reading there was a poem that really struck me.

written in pencil in the sealed railway car

here in this carload
i am eve
with abel my son
if you see my older son
cain son of adam
tell him that i


the final, unfinished sentence. the hanging ambiguity. it's sad. solemn. truthful. and the depth of the biblical allusion creates a whole new level of connection. to me, i feel connected with an awkward side. i feel that i have no right to feel connected. an Aryan refusal; a slight lapse toward guilt.

currently i am filled.
and so is my subconscious.

My Sweetheart, The Drunk.

This album has been playing in my bedroom for a very long time. Jeff Buckley seems to have felt everything to another level, in my opinion. That slight quiver on the end of a note can hang in your heart till it makes you feel tired.

I'm home. I've moved on, completely out of my safety zones. School is drawing to a close, and my scouting is dwindling. My last ever scout camp has just finished. 13 years of belonging to this.. security network, a guaranteed acceptance and happiness.. and it's just slowly flitting out to a anti-climactic curtain draw. I'm still meeting new people, but don't have time for them to meet me. This is all making me feel rather nervous.

I don't want to be old.

And after 6 days of being away from home and school, I feel relaxed, yet scared that I've lost too much time. I'm going to have to apply myself to my school work. Ridiculous amounts of stuff to do.

I'm also trying to put the pieces together in my head. I know you're clever. I know that you must have gotten it by now. But I really don't want to embarrass myself. Keep giving me hints.

That's what is in my head right now.

gearins.

parked out the gearin hotel.
sail off with a fire and smoke sail.
restin' easy tonight...
in the heat of december.

Drunkenness.

Drunkenness leads to a whole load of secret telling and dirty dancing. Ellie told me that she couldn't love me, because she loved men. Good for you darling, me too. Audrey thought she was Chris Lilly. That was also rather amusing.

But sometimes you don't know whether people mean things that they say. A hug can mean so much more, or so much less, you know? People say things that they don't intend on saying. I learnt a lot about myself from others. Stuff I hadn't even realised. Liam is good at hitting the nail on the head when he's drunk, even if he is a little (make it a lot) weak-kneed.

I was suprised.

Happy.
Anxious.
Sad.

Wondering

I wonder if someone will ever know how many freckles I have. Or if they'll notice that I tie my shoelaces differently. I wonder if someone knows my shoe size, and the story that my dad loves to tell me. I wonder whether they know what I saw in a tent when I was 10, or on a cliff when I was 12, or what happened to a friend of mine when I was 17. I wonder if they'll know all my secrets. And know my really inward fears.
I wonder if they know what my favourite colour is.
And who I think is the best junior league baseball team in the world.
I wonder if they know my favourite song lyrics, or how to tie me down.
Straighten me out.

You know it won't matter, she be passin' out.

Alonelonelyi'lloverdoseslowly.

This has been a terrible terrible year for me.
Just, let's please stick out the term. Alright? Good.

Harvest Moon.

Today I got directions to a place that I'll never visit. Figured out how to avoid toll on the 7 hour and 42 minute drive. There was advertising in the left hand column of hotels that I could stay in if I wished. Didn't know I'd been near there before until today. I went camping for 2 weeks when I was 13 years old. I went to my first concert, had my first boyfriend and went for my first long trip away from family when I was 13. I grew up a lot between 13 and 14. I think that may have been a little forced. I wish I could start it over.

But now that I'm 17, I'm planning how to get from here, a rain coated mountain, to the dusty highway intersection I can see in google maps. Trying to zoom in on what the sign says, trying to get my bearings. Where are you going exactly? Spose I'll never know. None of my business I guess. None of my business.

Tonight I've been looking at some wedding photos. And I'm glad they're happy. If I keep being glad for people, it might work out right?
All I want is to dance to harvest moon.
Neil Young.

Don't fret. It'll happen.
You're soo far ahead of yourself.

People pair up for the winter
Let go in the heat of the summer
Oh won't you be my winter lover?
My winter darling?

I dare you.
What will you find in the heat of the night?
What will you find in the deep of midwinter?

Mary had Three Kings.

There were three kings that came to visit Mary in her darkest/brightest hour. They gave up all their riches for what she brought to the world. No one remembered Mary's smile, or laugh, or her table-side opinions. They glorified her work and neglected her person. She was chosen initially for her dedication. She died without her work at her bedside. Her son was not their to relieve the pain. But she died with his love. And I guess that was enough for her.
But I wonder if it was worth the blisters on her feet. Worth the crusted dirt on her skin. Never feeling clean. The nomadity. The constant selflessness, working for such a large perspective of greater purpose.

I know I'm going to die a blasphemer. I'll question life until death has sown its seeds into my ribcage and the roots grow out, contorting my frame. There are some days that I long for consistancy. Days where I feel like I'm leading an army on my own morality, a Miltiades-like leader, a polemarch turning on its own men to gain safety. I know when I die, I'll confront St Peter, and Aristedes, and undergo the challenges that Ra endures during the nightly underworld visits and fail at every one. My heart will sink against the feather of truth. My karma will burst from the dam it's collected in for years.

I'll be happy, you know. Because I'll have realised. Found out, for certain, that I am really no one. No one at all.

Pretending

Sometimes I pretend that you're posting to me.
Sometimes I pretend that I've been asleep the whole time.
Sometimes I pretend I have deleted the photos off my computer, and that I have moved on. Sometimes I pretend that life is like a game. Like algebra. Solve for x. Solve for the y-intercept. Find the gradient. Climb it's slope. Is the horizon a straight line? Or is it more parabolic? If I were to buy it for $4000, what would this sunrise be in future value in 10 years time at a rate of 8.9% p.a.? Discussing with you the standard deviation of all of my worries, and trying to find the mean. So I can fix it all up from the middle.

Pythagoras was a bastard.
He took things too seriously.
If you took the squared height of myself and yourself, he is convinced that it would = x^2

But prove it.
Prove it Pythagoras.
Whingey little bitch.

A Little Hole.

I have a little hole in my heart. Where the emotion dribbles out from. The happiness radiates, and bubbles, and evaporates through my skin. A golden and mostly temporary glow. The anger swells but can't squeeze itself through the hole, so expands my heart and makes my chest hurt just that little bit. The sadness drips through the little hole, and is pooling in the bottom of my feet. It's filling me slowly. I need to be rung out. Like a sponge.

There's an empty space in my bed where you used to be.
You were the plug for the hole in my heart. When there wasn't any anger.
I crave for how small you made me feel.
Right now I feel so big. Weighted.

I feel ill.
Lonely.

:D

Has a date to the Year 12 formal.
Sally Gorman WINS.

Thought I'd broadcast my successes too.

New. Old.

New Haircut: Check.
New Room Design: Check.
New Diet: Check.
New Religious Views: Check.
New Dress: Check.
New Heels Ability: Check.
New Favourite Song: Check.
New Season: Check.
New TV Series: Check.
New Work Ethic: Check.

Old portraits hang on the walls.
Old songs collect dust in my cd player.
Old love.
Through Old eyes.
Old Old & tired eyes.

Dancing to Beyonce was not so rewarding.

And I've never thought me the jealous type. But I guess I was wrong; at least a little bit. My throat is sore because I sung my lungs out for you tonight. My heart sinks sometimes. I go pink. I try to talk.

But I just can't.
Can't Can't Can't.


Can't.
Shan't.
Won't.

I've Written A Set List

Designed especially for a person who isn't going to show.
So I'm going to play it to them anyway, and pretend if they were there.
I'll let the crowd know of their absence. So they can recognise. Pinpoint. Just what I'm going for.

Home!
Hallelujiah
Honey Give Me Your Heart
Charlie & James (He/She)
Who Goes There?

I always find a stage can feel really empty. So I try and fill it with what I play, yes? This may be a little tricky with a keyboard. Let's see how I go. :)

NERVOUS. nervous. nervous. NERVOUS. NERVOUS. nervous.

really, really quite nervous.

When Winter Wed The Spring

Their connection was always fleeting. Abrupt almost. It made Winter love her all the more. While the birds flew away from him, as if his silken hair or his stringy barren limbs were not enough for comfort, they flocked by the dozen to her colour. She smelt in the most particular way.
She made sure she'd visit and call.
Even though you couldn't assume that she'd be ontime.

He loved her. She connected to him.
And they lived side by side.

The other seasons weren't invited. They were jealous folk.

All the flowergirls arrived on time. The ring bearer showed his age by the circles of time in his trunk. Birds tipped their hats for the first time to snows tidings. The bears were confused to whether hibernation had ended or begun, so they watched animatedly from their caves and hidey holes.Chill and warmth shook hands, and the frost begged sunlights pardon as he shuffled icely t'ward his seat.

It was a grand old day that one. At the dawning of time.
I hope we celebrate it again some time. some place.

Where winter can lay fingers on the warmest of skins, and she'll get the greatest of goosebumps. Like it was always meant to be.

Besties

Reasons why I love my Bed:

-I've been sleeping with you for years.
-You're always there for me.
-If I leave for long periods of time, with no promise of when I'm coming back, or who I'm with, you are still waiting for me for when I get home.
-You're warm, and extra specially soft.
-I don't have to share you.


and;

I CAN JUMP UP AND DOWN ON YOU, AND YOU JUST WON'T DIE.

:D

Let X = (Proof 2005)

Let X equal the quantity of all quantities of X.
Let X equal the cold. It is cold in December. The months of cold equal November through February. There are four months of cold, and four of heat, leaving four months of indeterminate temperature.

In February it snows. In March the lake is a lake of ice. In September the students come back and the bookstores are full. Let X equal the month of full bookstores. The number of books approaches infinity as the number of months of cold approaches four.

I will never be as cold now as I will in the future. The future of cold is infinite. The future of heat is the future of cold. The bookstores are infinite and so are never full except in September...

I wish I was a mathematician.

Mainly because whenever you are writing an essay, or speaking a monologue, or voicing an opinion, or you try to give guidance.. you are talking shit. You are making stuff up. No one ACTUALLY cares.

With English, and literature, you aim to ask questions. And loosely answer them.
Mathematics and Science provide the answers. The solutions.
They leave you satisfied.

9x-7i<3(3x-7u)

^^
Discounting the use of imaginary numbers. (i)

The elephant in the room.

I really should get around to burning these letters.
They're making my room feel heavy.
And very very dated.

You know

If I were you, I'd do it so much better.
If I'd been given your opportunities, your looks and the attention you receive.. I wouldn't screw around. I wouldn't make others feel low about themselves. I wouldn't lead people on.

AND I'D WEAR A DAMN SIZE 8 DRESS.
AND BE ABLE TO WALK IN HEELS.
AND HAVE SHORT HAIR WITHOUT LOOKING LIKE A GIANT CIRCLE.
AND JUST.. FEEL FEMININE FOR A CHANGE.



oh wouldn't it be lovely.

Drink up Baby.

I need to get my eyebrows done. My face, with it's lines and contours, is losing shape within it's rigidity. Which, in itself, is a paradox.

It's lucky I can find relief in music.
I would die if I were deaf.

And you think that the world would have slowed down.

Something happens. Something huge.
Something that you see ripple between the social circles like its some form of idle gossip, and then casually disappear as if nothing had happened at all. The crowds disperse. The scattered conversation dies. Those who heard it in passing conversation, tip their hats and depart. The cameras turn to a new story. Ears tune to the sounds of a newly formed boy band and the world, ultimately, forgets.

For me, the crowds have not dispersed. The oceans haven't been swept underneath their skyline carpets. A group of tired eyed, pale faced boys met outside a classroom today. They brought grief with their news. They told it with their eyes, because their mouths had been ductaped shut.
It all made me feel rather ill.

And now I feel a sea sickness; people 'round these parts move too fast. They change, and judge, and assume, and never contemplate what it would be like to have it effect you. They're still discussing what boys they like, or how much homework they have to do on the weekend. They don't have their priorities straight.
The world should have slowed down.
The world should have paused.
The world should have stopped that day.
At least for a second.

To let me catch my breath or something.

I'm

Proud.
Tired.
Sore.
Contented.
Even possibly happy.

But mainly just proud. :)

A rap for my sweetheart :3

Dissa Dissa Dissa!
You know I miss ya!
Gonna keep rappin' coz I love you my sis (Ya!)
Where you been at? Oh I heard you were studyin'
So I thought I'd rhyme, tell you that you're my buddy n'
I can't wait till I see you next,
Gosh Girl, I need you, it's so hard to say it in text:
Oh I'm Talkin' bout all the hard times we've been through
You know it's true, Girl, I can't live without you.
So please, lady, jump on and skype me up
Skype me up OH a SKYPE ME UP!
Coz currently I can't tell you whats down from whassuuuuuup
I got my continents confused, are you in yours or mine?
Coz baby, whats mine is yours, I'm happy to share, its fine!
So I hope hope hope and pray that you passed your test
You know, them IELTs, I'm sure you did your best.
AND YOUR BEST IS THE GREATEST
GREATER THAN GREAT
And I'm sure you are told on that day that you graduate
"Oh Baby Lady, You Be So Pretty Smart
You Got Such A Big Heart,
No one knows how to stop it, or where to start
When tellin' others how amazin' you are
Girl You A STAR!"

--- thought you should have a rap. :)

A fully grown man who is scared of the dark.
A child cooking for seven.
A lady crouched on a street corner, wondering where she dropped her faith.
A drain full of dimes, and a wishing well full of nothing.
A sentence misunderstood.
A connotation not provocative enough to initiate action.
A dress thats too big for the recipiant.
A turntable that has nothing to do with turning the tables.
A southern american accent that doesn't drawl.
A pain in your side that you just can't place.
A walk taken by elderly couples. Some hold hands. Some don't.
A long flight with no intended destination.
A crane suspended via string.
A fight with only words.
A fight without words.
A fist fight.
A bar fight.
A fight.
A...

well. nothing really.

I Wish

That the motorbike circling my streets would just go home.
I'm tired. I'd like to sleep.

Also. Note.
We need to fix the plumbing.
The stuff next to my head squeaks in the night.

Today.

I realised the harshness of the lines on my face. I realised the darkness of the circles underneath my eyes. I realised how cold autumn feels this year. I realised how loudly the dead crunched beneath my feet on my walk to the village. I realised the comparrison of emotion between ages; and I realised that every girl my age walked past me with a boy latched to her arm like some kind of new and improved handbag. I realised that some people make me smile and some people make me cry. I realised that it's harder to hide from something, when you can't predict its movements, or its timing. I realised that I should never dye my hair black. I realised that older cars have more comfortable seating. I realised that my eyes begin to sting if you keep them open for too long in the cold air, yet there is no comfort in closing them. I realised the depth of the blackness when I shut my eyes tight. I realised the size of my bed. I realised how small it made me feel when I lay on my side. I realised that I'm not at all unnerved by sexism, but angered completely by racism and views against free sexual orientation. I realised my true height, weight, and skin colour. I realised that I wished I was different. I realised what I was not. I realised that I won't be able to paint away the scents that linger in my room. I realised that stripping the rooms carpet won't change who's walked in and out of its walls. I realised that for some reason, I'm drawn to do it anyway. I realised that its really easy to open this and write, and lose track of everything. I realised that goosebumps can forcefully claw their way up your arms, even if you do everything in your power to prevent them. I realised that today was a very very long day.

I realised that I need to stop thinking.
And I realised that I really realise too much.
Or possibly nothing at all.

Elle Fitzgerald.

Spring Can Really Hang You Up The Most.

'Love seemed so sure around the new year. Now its April. Love is just a ghost.'
Random on my playlist. The lyrics first noticed in my jazz singing lesson today.

Here's a big old dose of

FUCK YOU JAZZ MUSIC. now I know why no one likes you.

And fade.

thought I'd note the day I prayed to God.
I don't know which God. I don't know whether they were listening.
Whether they were on lunch break.

I would love some sleep. It's 1.04 am.
But my mind is not so kind tonight. And I have a new mattress.
My bedroom seems completely foreign. I never thought previously that my clock ticked so loudly.

I miss the smell.
And the feel.
And the sound.

Sound is everything. Words are everything.
Presence is everything.

A Smile.

Today; I smiled.
At first, when you think of the action, it's not all that attractive. A furtive twitch of the lips, before they spread and bare teeth to the world. But this smile was a good one. A smile of relief. And a smile of acceptance. New events allow old events to pass out of the lime light. Time travels faster.

I have no regrets.
I've loved every moment.
I'll always love them. I'll keep them in my back pocket.
For a rainy day. Or a warm day. Or an inbetween day. Or a lonely day. Or a long day. Or a short day. Or a busy day; when I just need a damn break from everything and everyone in the room.

I had them out on my desk today. While I wasted the sunshine.
They kept me company, you know?

There is no point.

In hearing lists of good things about yourself. Or recieving compliments. Or smiles. Or kisses.

Because the only people that ever give them, or say those things, they are the ones that end up leaving you. At the end of the day, they are the only ones gone.

I'mma

BARE MY TEETH.
GET RID OF THIS SOUND.
SUCCEED.
AND BE SO FUCKING HAPPY.
AND YOU'RE GOING TO COME BACK.
AND I'LL HAVE EVERYTHING I'LL EVER NEED.

I need patience.
God. I need patience.
Maybe I'll just count every time I lose it.
That's a good idea.

there's nothing artistic about this blogging anymore. its only insight. its only therapy. i'm not gonna ask for help, because i'm proud. and scared.
so very very scared.

GIVE IT BACK. the other side of winter.

I've never screamed so loudly.
The rain has never fallen so quietly.
The wind has never shown such ferocity.
And the trees have never missed the winds beating quite as much.

The summer misses the beating of butterflies wings, so it hides itself under a winters coat. Becomes white with terror, hiding under blankets of snow, denying the truth with a chilly exterior.

And Autumn is an irony that I've never really wanted to face. A force fed change of mother nature, when all that lives with her desperately wants to cling to the warmth and life of the seasons preceedings.

Oh God I hate it. I hate it. I HATE IT. I HATE IT. I HATE IT. I HATE IT. I fucking hate it. World, you deserve your disasters, you deserve your global warming, and your hurricanes, and floods, and fires, and drought. But the people that live on you. The people that work tirelessly for you. The people that just want everything to work out. They don't deserve your change for dead in autumn. They don't deserve your lifeless winter, with its barren streets. I shouldn't have to compensate with the artificial warmth of a lit fire in my house, when you could just let the sun shine through and warm my face.
I hate how you work. I hate how you revolve and move and coexist with other systems. I hate your placement in the solar system. I hate you so much it makes me feel ill.

And I can't help but hate now.
I can't help but cry now.
I can't help it.
At all.

My heart wells, and is lodged in my throat.
I can't breath.
I can't see straight.

Why do I read your blog?

It seems I'm good at breaking my own heart.

How?

I used to remember a time where my vision was clear. Everything that I needed was within my grasp. A short distance walk. A bike ride out of town.
But it seems there is always room for change.




You think that you can pull all your seperate pieces of life together, and hope that it magically pans out the way that you planned. I stare at blankly tv screens, infiltrated by scenes of disaster, as if in my heart these images are invading my memory, misplacing fondness for tension. You reach out for bonds of family, and then realise. They're scattered.

Come back, ya?
Selamat malam.

Future.

I'm having my honeymoon in the Library Hotel, New York.

www.libraryhotel.com


<3 ily

A Vaudevillian Revival.

I've grown to find the past two years of my life has been devoured by an utter devotion in my soul to the generation of a Vaudevillian Revival of the 21st Century.

Burlesque dancers dazzling audiences, eyes trying to get to grips with some of the glorious garters sported by beautiful women. Big Bands playing a variety gypsy folk, soaked in gin, blood and all the lust you can fit into one dance floor. An odd obsession with death. A band, in my eyes, isn't complete without a rich double bass, and some well laid accordian. And loads, of unnecessary screaming and drunkeness.

The men are much more attractive, when they holler, and beat their chains with hammers, and sport suspenders with collared shirts, and blow your eardrums with rich baritones.

It's the only place where a woman can steal your soul, and sell it to a black market for a very good price. It's a place for converts; evangelised agnostics with gold teeth and well-oiled pick up lines.

It'll eat your heart out and replace it with coal.
And you won't mind one little bit.






-The Hoodoo Emporium.
Burlesque, Mojo, and the gigs of the Jitterbug Club.

http://www.hoodooemporium.com/index.html


-Juke Baritone and the Swamp Dogs.
A freak cabaret. The best way to have your ears assaulted.
At your nearest Speigeltent.

http://www.myspace.com/jukebaritone


-Graveyard Train.
'Like a steel-capped boot to the face'.
Blues

http://www.graveyardtrain.com.au/


-Frankie Valentine.
Burlesque.
Your very own femme fetale.

http://www.myspace.com/frankie.valentine







Pull out your tarot cards and predict a false future.
Every single soul in the worlds got a tale. Even if it aint the truth at all that they are tellin'..

A tribute to Fred Garber;

I never would think that I could be as good of a writer as him, but I'll give it a shot. It's funny how you can stumble on something, across the street, a sign as you travel the bus home, an incorrect link on a friends web page.. and you can find the most amazing things. This is the case with my Factory Town. It's where Tom and I live, and sleep, and eat sometimes (although the food is not so good).
And initially, even though we didn't know it, it'd been imagined, created, and developed by a Mr. Fred Garber of Iowa State, America.

It's been 11 months since his last post. I'll admit to following him religiously, even though it may shock him to hear it. My favourite posts are "When I was in Cincinnati" and "One Hundred Common Questions". Especially the latter.

So put on your dancing shoes, and have a look at his stuff:

factorytown.blogspot.com


----

There was a man
Who I could hear talking to me
Although he lived a long long way away.

He would tell me stories of his town,
Of beds, and ships that docked into corridors of hotels
and into the kitchens of restaurants
and into the hallways of five kings that no one has ever met.

And for all your lies you tell me
From very far away
You're still very loveable.
Forever.
Even if your heart is dust.
And your tongue is made of daggers.
My heart quakes,
and I'm cold as I check again.

For your return.

Oh, and has anyone noticed?

I'm often the discarded one. Love me or leave me. I entreat you. Stay. Please.

I beg of you.

Ad Hominem.

When translated from Latin to English, this term means "against the man".

In reality, unlike it's misuses on the internet as a replacement for sarcasm and such, Ad Hominem is 'the logical fallacy of attempting to undermine a speaker's arguement by attacking the speaker instead of adressing the arguement'.
And put into a societal context, wander in to parliament sometime? You may find that Julia Gillard is too often performing to cameras the 'Hokey Pokey Carbon Tax' song, when she should be getting her environmental on. Liberal members are alikening her to Gadhafi. Kristina is being her irritating self. Maggie T is having a movie made about her (with Meryl Streep), and trust me here, on that note... I AM NOT COMPLAINING. LONG LIVE THE IRON LADY'S LEGACY.

But honestly, as my great great grandfather said in his time, and as I believe it still truely stands.. 'Government as it is at present is simply a comedy which is not even well played'. I admire his radical socialism. He seems, from Bob Jame's essay 'W.R. Winspear - Anarchist or Socialist', an intelligent man.



Maybe it's all time we migrated to China.

A Room of Requirement.

My room.
Purple walled,
full of world maps, paper cranes and musicians posters.

I believe now, instead of being a bedroom, it has become a room of requirement. It's now a room of constant residance, obligation and numerous tasks, rather than the initial designated use of 'sleeping'. If I had a real room of requirement, like the one in the fictional story of Harry Potter, I would have a room full of pillows and beds and green tea and soup.

But all I have in here is an untuned guitar, and a pile of work.

Dear John.

~ there is nothing better than being as derro as we are in this photo, and not caring at all :)

I know, when a girl is growing up, she looks at all the romance and rom com films, and thinks.. why can't my romance be like it is in the movies. Some may say that I am fortunate enough to be one of the few to have one of those special romances.

I totally pulled out 'Dear John'. Where some girl (who I think is a little pretentious in the movie, I did not like her acting style at all) meets a handsome man, and they find out they have something just before he goes back to the army. Which, you know, is probably about right for me. Gospel truth, apart from the father and child with aspergers, and a man dying of cancer. Anyway, I'm not going to put this whole blog into my stylistic story format, or cover it with false pretenses. John needs a bit of a slap to the face to realise things.

Dear John (terrible movie)

Thankyou for being here. Thankyou for not having left yet.

Thankyou for letting me be just the way I am, and loving me for it.

I know I can be a bit rough around the edges, or a bit manly, or bitchy, and sometimes just plain yuck. But if you're willing to stick around, then that's the best thing that could be happening for me right now. I love you. Enough for you to get rediculous haircuts and not care. You're sweet and understanding and just down right amazing. Thankyou Thankyou ThankYOU!

<3

Oh.

PLEASE DON'T GO.




barcelona.

New Lyrics

Maybe this time, I'll raise my glass to the bar, and hope that somehow the barman knows just what I've been a thirstin' for. YOU KNOW? I'MMA THIRSTY. An army man came to my door. He had his heart in his hands, and his eyes to the floor. He said, won't you fill me up? I'm a glass half empty, you're a glass half full. YOU KNOW? I'MMA THIRSY. (fill me up, fill me). I'MMA THIRSTY. And when you talk about national pride, through the grit of your teeth you have nothing to hide. You've shown me your heart. Now it's time to show you mine.

YOU KNOW? I'MMA THIRSTY. [please Don't Go]. (fill me up, fill me). I'MMA THIRSTY. [please Don't Go]. (fill me up, fill me). I'MMA.


--- It always sounds better in your head.

I believe, my dears, there has been a dramatic change in the weather.

Outside my house this evening, it is raining.
It's clouded. It's grey. It's oppresive. And it's all those things that you'd expect to feature in a pathetic fallacy build up within the beginning of an Edgar Allan Poe sequence. But the sickly glow of daylight savings tarnishes it's reputable take on the trademarked setting, like sallowness of the skin can ruin any length of childhood 'happy snaps'.

But one thing you should always expect (and prepare for!), my dears, is a sudden and dramatic change in the weather.

The sky went orange, mauve, rose pink, agrum, purple, dusty red, fade back to orange.
And then black.

I saw it all.