One week and 2 days ago I had a dream.  I was I walking along the cliffs away from a well lit, well loved house, out to the cold navy lit by a full moon.  As walked I thought of my mother and how I only call when something’s wrong and I thought about wolf man and how there was no fun in life anymore.  I knew where I was going and what I was going to do and for some reason I thought the salt air was going to save me from myself and everyone would know that every stupid, poor decision I’ve made that landed me in this place of hanging on by a very frayed thread, I made because I was terrified they’d all find out I wasn’t worth loving and if I did the right things and the right time I could make amends, but at that point I hadn’t and couldn’t, so probably wouldn’t. Fuck that’s a really long sentence. But the air was really cold, and the world for the first time in nearly a year, look clear.  And next to me go warm.

And a woman’s voice said, “Hey there”, but there was no one there, “You’re going to die on Sunday”.

 I told her to go away that she was only part of this dream.  I knew then I enjoyed my despair.  

“No,” she said, “You’re going to die next Sunday”

What the fuck do you say to that, even if it is a dream?

“Do you want to know what it’s going to feel  like?”

I nodded numbly.  I reasoned, being too scared at this point to breathe, that I was already dead and that this was probably a bad as it was going to get. So we walked to the edge, the water still until it hit the rocks white and sharply.

She held my hand.  And I knew.  I knew in that moment I had everything wrong.  That my life wasn’t quantifiable, that no one was keeping score, and I kept ignoring the one thing that I lived for because I was too vain and proud to admit it was the ONLY thing I wanted in this life.  Love. Whatever that means, right? Everything I’ve done in life I’ve done because I’m scared of losing it, having it, not deserving, not capable of giving it.  Especially if people see me for the monster I really am. And don’t be decieved, I am, but I am also a lot more.  

So she held my hand and I knew and before I could argue that I’d changed my mind, or could plea my way out, we’d jumped. 

In that moment, before you’d expect to fall, we exploded into the nothingness, the last remainents of being tingling, vibrating, far faster than any orgasm I could imaginel light, settled everywhere and no where at once- free, back in to the fabric of existence.  And that was it.  

I woke up, I swore I could be afraid all I want, so long as whatever I did was fueled by being connected to those I love, even if I didn’t want to believe I deserve it. To help make their last moments before returning to be rich, full and loving. To be present and to stop escaping it. My subconcious now reads like a bad self help novel.  I don’t care.  I’m still hanging on by  a thread, but it’s not as frayed, it has purpose, and we will just hang there strongly until the end, doing the best we can.

There are many reasons to use facebook.

1. Stalking. (which I’m so guilty of…look material has to come from somewhere)

2. Spamming (which I’m so guilty of I bleed Spam)

3. Using both to enact a secret revenge for acts long forgotten about.

Here is my new least favourite-

4.  For when you want the world to know you’re in a secure relationship, because you don’t know how to call your partner? Text? Don’t really see them at all- they’re working far away from you and have enough money to fuck whoever they want on call because secretly they stopped believing in relationships years ago?  Gag. For future reference, the word ‘honey’ has got to be the least intimate of pet names- unless it’s smeared between someones…nevermind. 

Can I have my divorce now?  *

*All things written on this blog are purely for entertainment purposes and serve no basis in reality what so ever.**  

** Just give me my divorce.***

***This would mean I would be less cynical about other peoples sentiments in relationships and I could go back to being like ‘Awwe isn’t that cute. You guys are so cute.  God, man, love is so fucking beautiful.  This is what it’s all about.  Love and spanking”

I am sorry.  I think I just need some coco pops and lie down.

This week has been a cunt. This month has been a cunt. This year since november can lick my cunt whilst…best not finish this sentence.  There’s a reason I think 6 times before accepting a friend request from a relative on facebook.  There’s also a good reason I boycott family Christmii (that’s the plural of Christmas- dergh), my potty mouth.  But this post isn’t about that.  Nope it’s about the feeling of swimming in shit. 

Anyone at this point who’s seriously thinking “Think positive”, “get over”, “talk about something else”, “think about the tiny orphans in somewhere”, please, kindly go fuck yourself. 

So to combat this shit storm of cuntiness.  I thought I’ll take control of my life. Yep. I’ll take control of my life and make everything better for everyone and then I’ll feel appreciated and they’ll be happy and we’ll all be shitting rainbows and blue birds.  So I thought I’d start a performance collective.  I was going to create, connect a world of dark stupidity.  And we have.  And I’m humbled by how amazingly talented everyone is.  But now I worry about not being good enough for them.  That I don’t think of everything in the moment, that I don’t have all the answers, that’s people won’t enjoy references to alien mixed in with an increasingly over-used carnivale aesthetic.  I stress endlessly about dreaming up a rich and vibrant world and serving up a pile of drunken boy turd (I’m talking the morning after kind). I want the best, but I want, no need, to be braver.  I want to have some fucking fun this year. Dammit.  I want to be in a place where everyone feels like they belong, where they able to take pride of themselves and every time I hear “can’t”, or “let’s be realistic” my dream hides away a little bit.  Yeah I, need to be stronger I get that.  

My life fell to shit because I tried to do everything on my own, and be everything to everyone (the details of which, even this headspace, shock me) because I’m terrified of other people.  It’s what’s my play is about- Charming the very thing you’re terrified of so that it becomes obligated, emotionally, to you and is no longer at threat of hurting you because of that.  It’s just said in a very ridiculous way.  But I’m learning that things don’t work that way.  That I’ve just got to get comfortable with other people and their opinions and provided I’m not a complete fuckwit, my life isn’t at danger.  Maybe if I just get a little more used to criticism and the ideas thrown on the table my life will feel better, and I’ll get closer to my dream of everyone feeling that they’re valued and belong- and who knows, maybe I may even, dare I say it, learn to have some fun again. 

But then, you know, what would I write about?

Ah what a crazy ass busy week.  Because even I know it’s really cool to be crazy ass busy and still not earn a pay cheque.

So before I correct the grammar, spelling, and obscenely long sentences in my last post,(Which was a joke people- one inspired daily) before I start singing and talking to myself for 8 hours, a before I start crying from fear of medical procedures- my thoughts.

Thought one: “I not jealous, you’re a boy”- A friend, in boy speak, is someone you used to fuck.  Even if they fucked you over, slept with a small majority of your social circle and still managed to convince you that they love you, they’re you’re friend.  Here’s some news- they’re not.  I hate them for doing it, and I pity you (albeit, fleetingly) for believing it. You see, I’ve done it before-  Way way in the past.  I was sexually and emotionally unfaithful.  I told the men involved that I loved them, that I was sorry (I think I was afraid of being hated more than I was sorry), that it wasn’t what it looked like, that it meant nothing (insert more cliches here), the fact is; I loved the attention, I loved fucking, I loved the secrecy, I loved the fact that someone thought I was worth risking everything in their life for and that someone thought I was worth keeping around despite being the destructive force I was.  I wasn’t a nice person. It was never about anyone else but me.  It was really about feeling like I was more than, what in my gut, I knew I was. In hindsight, and about 10 years hindsight, I’m really sorry.  I can’t be sorry enough. But sorry isn’t enough to expect a friendship from.  

Thought two: “Splatter- a great theatre tradition” nameless is going well.  Aside from a few tweaks, it works as a story.  Our ensemble is brilliant.  I know everyone says that, but I was really taken by the generosity and boldness in our room yesterday.  I can’t wait to get props and music in the space.  So much wonderful work to be done in such a small period of time. We’ll hopefully be having a show in September and a season in Novemember.  In the meantime there’ll be a few one act shows around town.  I’ll keep you posted.  Theatre is fun.  Seriously.  If you you’ve been convinced otherwise, I’ll personally stab the person that instilled that in you.  And if it was seeing a 2nd year Checkov.  Well… What did you expect?

Thought three: “Practicalities” I have to pee

Thought four.  ”About Peeing”.  I am so excited about Bell Shakespeare auditions.   A friend dropped in for coffee this morning and we started talking about Hamlet, then A Midsummer, then Titus then Shakespeare in general, then (what I describe as the ‘other’) nature of creating and I was so excited I was shaking as starting to talk really loud.  It’s so mind blowing how much you can explore it.  It’s like meeting a dark mysterious stranger that becomes a slightly aloof, and wise life long friend.  Of sorts.  And you know how relationships lose their ‘new’.  Each time feels like the 1st time.  That with each meeting there’s more to know.  Shakespeare rocks.  

Thought five.  ”On that note:.  Back to work

x 

It’s Friday so we should like totally get wasted and take lots of self portraits from above so our heads and boobs look big but our body looks like an anorexic whippet and talk about how fucking fucked relationships are and how fucked our bosses are and how fucking fucked and hard (insert relevant industry here) is and how we’re so much fucking better than this and how everyone else thinks they’re so much fucking better…but they’re not.  The we should totally hit on that guy over there, fake a lesbian finger finger fuck for a line of coke take some more photos with said guy talk about how fucking genius we all are crawl home, fuck, upload the photos of our fantastic fucking night out and tag our ex-boyfriends so they’ll see how fucking hot and amazing and wild they’ll never be.  

At least that’s how imagine Friday nights go, judging from facecrack.  

The other observation I’ve made that really grinds me (and not in a take me home and whip me kind of way) is the public announcement of the arrival of one’s ‘wise self’.  The person who feels they’ve had enough life experience that can earnestly proclaim self help cliche after self help cliche but in a manner that seems to make you, the reader, feel very small and a failure.  The people that harp on with “If you can picture, and you truly feel worthy, it will happen”, or “feel the connection and communication with universe” or some other similar thing. Truth is last time I felt really in touch with and in deep communication with the universe my doctor thought it ‘wise’ to discuss upping the meds and hospitalisation.  Anyhow, you know what I’m talking about- the one’s  who’s status update reads like one giant TED talk.  The one’s that sound right if you weren’t so depressed and on the hunt for an excuse…any excuse…Let’s be honest some times it sounds downright insensitive.  Everything is easy, even if the past has been tragic and hard, and everything is possible when you’re content or happy. The cliches don’ help you get there, hard work might, luck might, the only thing cliches serve as, is a tool to make you feel right, worthy, and (dare I say it?) superior,  once you’re there.  Maybe cold comfort at best if you haven’t heard them a thousand times and hadn’t perpetually failed, despite all this great wisdom in the world, and the middle class, western pursuit of being happy.  Why not just living?  For example, I’m really sad today and that’s a part of life, and grateful that I’m alive and if it the sadness changes fucking great and if not then fucking great, I but I am not a failure for not being happy.  Anyway I digress… I have no idea how this stereotype spends it’s friday nights, but I’m assuming it involves lots of being smug and stoned. 

Then there’s the slightly more grown up version of our first group of twitettes.  You know the slick 30’s somethings, crawling ever-so-slowly (some of them backwards- leaving physicists in awe) towards their mid-40’s, all have fabulous careers in the arts, and by ‘career in the  arts’ I mean, hang around artists and make their money off people with more talent (but not as much money resources) grants and advertising. Mainly advertising. Who drink their beers in pubs that vaguely look like they could be a run down pub except they lack the cockroaches, the fights (and not scrag fights between two guys in tight black jeans  who haven’t cottoned on to the fact that wearing said jeans makes their cocks look even smaller then their conversation would have already suggested and I can’t speak for other hetero women or gay men but yes I do look and yes it does matter- what I’m saying is those fights don’t really count as real fights),  and the only bikie in the place is probably only there to sell marching powder to the ever increasingly intoxicated on whatever-beverage-is-ironically-cool patronage.  You’ll also see them swanning around a “insert relevant media- post media-production companies pretending to not look for the social photographers camera to capture their “I’m stuck in my grandmother’s couch circa 1970’s” ultra-hip indie vibe (It seems it’s easier to latch on the past as a great work of art rather than justify an inability to move past one’s upper middle class childhood).  I’m not sure how their nights end, but I suspect it’s either snuggly wuggly in their Transformers or Mork and Mindy egyption cotton 300 thread count bedsheets,  or out, trying to capture the attention of  the before mentioned twitettes. 

My Friday night will be spent reading, wishing I were younger, wild, wise or just gracefully and disgustingly foolish.  That I had the will to step outside and feel alive. Having said that, Hamlet, even after the 5th read, is awesome.  Ah what a blessed life we lead- I think I can hear the stars (or someone) calling…*

*Turns out it was just the guy downstairs yelling. Sooo beautiful. 

Often I can help think about how the moments in your life, the ‘one offs’, the ones that if we do have souls are etched so deeply that we feel them in our breath, are just a pattern, taken for granted by the people we shared them with. That meaning is relative and of no grand consequence at all. And how it’s the moments and the people we share them with that remind us ultimately that we’re really alone. That this is a lonely existence, not filled with meaning, but with delusion. And none of this should matter now. Because the moment- delusion or not, feels full. But it does. Because whilst these moments re-enforced with dry-all accepting cynicism, who the other believed themselves to be, it was new to me. Even when I said it wasn’t. It was as new as the next breath when you learn that even that can falter. And the pattern from which it came I resent because each moment forced me to grow and it kept them trapped- a product of laziness or lack of imagination. But overall I think it was because it was said that meant something that it was a lie. And everything I invested in shady memory was a lie and yet when I stepped out of though and into another dream and I said “I hate you” I couldn’t stop crying. But sometimes I think it’s true and I don’t know if it’s that I find that sad or if I too have formed a pattern, I have branded myself, that I don’t want to be someone who says those things and means them.

Solitude is a strange beast.  We spend hours together.  It’s my closest friend.  It’s seen me laugh, cry, fuck  and fuck things up. It’s heard me sing when I’m sober and been the only one to ever hear what I truly think.  It’s seen me trace the faint lines etched into my skin and create at moments of extreme bliss or despair new ones.  

In the morning I anticipate our time together, sulking if it doesn’t happen.  The other will leave and solitude and I will great in each other with pre-coffee amble.  I’ll pour some cereal, and when I’m certain no one is looking, I’ll eat half and let it sit, for hours on the kitchen bench, before solitude with it’s silent scowl chastises me.  I’ll make us coffee and drink it’s when it’s back is turned, eyeing it with dead eyed innocence in the mirror.  It plays out my thoughts through a water colour projections. Rating each till they come think and fast  and we’re forced to lie down and watch Kerri-Ann.  Then with our minds suitably numbed, I plaster on another face, whisper nothing and we go our seperate ways.  

I’ve been dreaming up a distant idea about a show for years.  Just the colours and the sounds and vacant bits of could do’s.  Recently I’ve been talking and plotting and generally freaking out with another much more awesome performer about said show.  It’s called Nameless at this stage.  Apt.   So we’ve been brainstorming (I’ve been braincrashing ) and this is one of the writings I’ve pulled from the thing that sits up there and says lets do this and then watches as the body does nothing.  

So fucking lonely and distracted and nowhere I think I might break. My head is a heavy marshmellow attatched to sinew and regions of discomfort.  

So ahhhhhh.  I don’t want to talk to anyone.  I just want to know there’s a body in the room, breathing, existing.  

I hate my job.

I hate cleaning when I finish work, the day after work.  The clutter and the empty packets fill my room, reciepts, none of them tax deductable.  

Once I was going to be somebody.  I was going to be myself and get places by doing so

I told myself other fairy tales too.  I told myself that my tits would grow, that I’d find clarity, that I wouldn’t be stressing endlessly about coin, about love, about my head

My fucking head.

The marshmellow.

The marshmellow absorbing the mess around me.

I miss my family.

I miss…

You know I was going to be somebody.

Not just a face that’s fading, creasing up.  I would be loved. I am loved.  Why isn’t that enough to satisfy the slump- the slump that rapidly becomes despair.  

I don’t want to cook

I want to continue existing in solitude on my time line.

I can hear the disapointment in anyone’s voice when I talk to them

“Ooooh! Hi!  It’s- you”

“You made all these promises, you said you were going to be somebody, but here we are- there you are, doing- well, not much.  You don’t do much”

“It’s not that you try to too hard.  In my opinion, judging from the desperation in you voice and the permently painted ‘I’m friendly’ smile on your face, you try way too hard.  Maybe you shouldn’t try.  You know, just cease trying.  Back out, admit that you failed and walk away quietly”

I hear that louder than words actually spoken. 

The other thing I hear is, “You look tired”

I don’t look tired, I’m getting older and I can’t afford botox and I’m not clever enough to land me a job that will enable me too. Also I don’t like the idea of puting some wealthy old man’s cock in my mouth, besides I’m not blonde and busty enough

Fuck I hate those words “Busty”.  ”Blonde”

Busty.

Buuuuusty.

Blonde.

I don’t fit into an ideal anywhere.

I used to be quirky.

Now I’m just invisable.

Usually I like to plan these things.  Think of an inane topic, write some inane relevant words, hit click post.  I can’t.  I’ve tried for days I can’t think of a single thing that I’m even psuedo-passionate about that I can fit in to a few small words, add a few stupid jokes then tie neatly in to a bow.

So I’ll go with what’s been happening.

I’ve started writing a play.  Which has pushed back my finishing the short screenplay I’ve been re-writing for two years.  This has taught me a dreadfully disappointing lesson-  Don’t write about the people you love.  With every re-write it will break your heart, make your partner jealous, make sentimental the moments in your life that were ultimately damaging before silencing you into never being able to properly articulate anything of any value towards those people again.    I don’t know maybe there’s something beyond this hump I’m missing.  Maybe none of it really existed, I just wrote it and somewhere along the line it seemed to all steep from memory.  Yawn.

Work.  I’m a contributing member of society, which means I feel marginally less rubbish about a being a poor contributing member of my household and relationship.  This is more because Mikey is amazing and I’m- Well I’m me.  Work also means I now have a killer wardrobe, suddenly give a shit about cut, fabric and how well and high my heels are, as well being able to justify my fetish for dressing up and behaving like a princess 8 hours a day.  Why I waited for a role to come along that would offer me that, fuck knows- I’ve spent the last 6 years playing psychologically damaged young women for no money, that’s not going to change over night.  You know, unless someone in this ‘creative industry’ actually developed an imagination in regards to casting outside what they’ve already shoved down their own throats for the last god-only-cares how many years.  That is not to say of course I haven’t loved those roles, I do- I love what I do, I just like to paint on lots of different canvasses as well. 

Mouse!!!!!  This has given me so much joy I could vomit a rainbow of laughter.  Wow, did I just write that?…Anyway. So Mikey and the family found this miniscule bush mouse.  So they rescued it from the food chain.  He’s now strong enough that we can look at putting him back in the wild.  Sad for us (I cried) but really good for him.  

South coast.  Nice.  I slept.  That’s what I love to do.  I really love sleep.

So that’s about it, unless you wanted to read what I bought at the supermarket yesterday, or about what I really think about women’s toilets (ladies, they invented sanitary bins for a reason-so you can keep you menstrual blood off the floor/ walls/ doors)  or why I spend so much time in there in the first place.

So good bye

Vampire rabbit doing tai chi