December 31, 2017

canberra is a dry place, in the winter it is dry and cold and in the summer it is dry and hot. this year the summer has been wet so far, and everything still feels dry but there’s a lushness to the vegetation (a kind of ragged desperation to grow), and some days feel like a hot wet breath.

i love canberra, though it is becoming uglier and harder to live in. a city with infrastructure that ignores (or disregards) it’s citizens and the land it sits on.

here are my resolutions:

  • i will write every day. either her (which will be hard because i don’t have a computer), in my journal or in letters. (letters are also hard but hopefully i can overcome my fear or writing and rejection)
  • i will focus on making work for a show that i can put on next year.
  • i will read without stopping every book that crosses my path.
  • i will treat myself (body, mind, heart and soul) with as much respect and compassion that i believe anyone else deserves (and hopefully then become a more compassionate, supportive, interesting person and be able to treat every one else that way)
  • i want to go somewhere and be truly myself and feel no fear or shame.

well i suppose that is it for now.



December 30, 2017

i am in a horrible state of depression. i don’t know for how long, but i only realised last night because i went ‘off the rails’. maybe it should be clearer to me, recognizable because i have been diagnosed in the past, because i know i am prone.

but it’s not. it is very hard for me to pay attention to myself or to ask for help.

i always wonder how people can do it. like themselves or think they are worth something.

i will try to tell you how i feel about myself:

actually, i don’t know if i will. i walked to worked today early, leaving my house before seven am. while i walked i tried hard to think of things to write, because i wanted to write. i wanted to be heard or forgiven or noticed or something. now i am here i feel sick of myself and ashamed. i feel like it is pointless to ask for anything (especially in this weak, passive way), because i am pointless. i am and have and will be nothing, and to ask for anything is a grave injustice, it’s just not fair to people who are and who matter.

my friend said “you cut people out, i am surprised you still talk to me” and i was flabbergasted because i thought (and generally think) that he was only my friend because he felt sorry for me, or obligated somehow. i will never trust that people might like me, or want to be my friend. it makes sense to me that i am lonely and alone. i don’t feel like i cut people out, i just let them go because they must want to be let go, to be free of me.

i am a disgusting person.

last night i drank a whole bottle or whisky. or, most of one. enough to pass out and wake up with no memory of the evening. i was just alone at my house, willing myself to die. i guess that is how i feel; willful of death, but too ashamed or pathetic to act it. so not suicidal. but what is that? it the past i would cut myself but now i don’t even feel worthy of the pain or shock that causes. it feels pretty shitty. i look up on the internet ‘do cyanide pills still exist?’ or ‘deathcap mushroom canberra’

i used to want to be an artist or writer but i don’t understand how i ever thought that was possible. i am passionless.

i guess i don’t even know what that means.

i often think about how damagine i must me. –i wrote that by mistake but what a lovely word! damagine – like a broken dream. like the scene in the labyrinth where jennifer connelly dances with david bowie in the ballroom but then she panics and the illusion cracks and she is at the rubbish tip, or whatever happens.

maybe it is hard to feel depressed (or to feel like maybe i need help) because in many ways i feel better about myself (or my life at least) than i have ever felt. but then, i also feel worse than i have ever felt. everything is true. i have nothing and i am nothing and i am worth nothing to the world.

ha! so dramatic.

yesterday i was in a pretty good mood but i knew i would go home and will myself dead and not be able to cry. and i knew i would come to work again, day after day and never be sick because i am not allowed to be. or i am not valid and feeling good isn’t for me. but then, it is for everyone else. isn’t that weird? how do people feel worth it enough to help themselves? how do people go to the psych without having nothing to say because everything just is shit and it’s fine. or not ‘fine’ but immovable?

gosh i miss writing. i haven’t written properly for a while. a post or a letter i mean. i want to do that.

i don’t know. i wish i didn’t feel so horrible, and i wish i wasn’t horrible to everyone else and i wish i believed i could be valuable to any one in any way.

i’m eating chips for breakfast.

i make art. or: recently i made some art. it is a drawing. a five-panelled drawing on a frame. it is a raw drawing, created with raw materials. it’s quite tight though, visually. conceptually too, i suppose. or maybe not. it is activated by sulight. to show it, the space would need to have light. natural light, and a big, free window.

it’s strange to make something that has not place or purpose other than itself, it’s own representation. what happens with work like this? i have nothing in front of me, nothing behind. the drawing hangs, activated and whole while i am absent at work.

i want to write more. something, anything. what can i write? nothing intellectual or interesting. i think mostly of how difficult it is to be a sight-impared pedestrian in canberra. often i feel alone.

making art and looking at art, thinking about art and talking about art takes up most of my time.

i don’t know if i need encouragement. i find it hard to encourage others.

i just don’t know.

two neighbours on the bus

November 18, 2016

i feel scared of writing, and that is why i haven’t for a long time.

i feel like if i open up and be honest i will be swallowed whole.

by what? i don’t know. by who? i don’t know that either. maybe i am consumed by this idea of myself, this all encompassing, all-or-nothing thing.

also i wonder: about what? what is there to be honest about that is now so terrible? i feel a bit scraped raw. i keep trying to find things and people to fill myself with – rocks and space and sounds – but nothing sticks.

when i work on tuesdays in the kitchen, i often have the job of preparing the meat. beef or pork, big cuts boiled. sometimes a pig’s whole head, split down the middle so i can scoop out the brain, the tongue, the meat behind the eyes. i like this job, i find it familiar. something about the fatty warm flesh reminds me of myself. i think it makes me feel the usefulness of my flesh, flesh in general. meat. i feel some satisfaction sliding my fingers under the skin to separate the fatty gristle from the tasty meat. i think about my tummy, my arms, my thighs. the eyes of a boiled pig are shriveled and milky – they no longer see but their lids still close and protect, the lashes in-tact. i think about my eyes squinting to see that i am doing the right thing. i squint so much every day and i never see anything clearer. there’s cut, maybe the rump or thigh, the knuckle, that

(now it’s been several days and i have written two letters and a postcard and today i am feeling manically happy which is very dangerous and false but quite exciting too)

i saw this nice thing on the bus the other day. it was an interaction between two neighbours. the first neighbour and i got on the bus at the interchange. they sat behind me, almost the last seat. they wore business gear and had headphones in. the second neighbour got on later, the stop near the supermarket. this one had several shopping bags and sat near the front. in holder, they pushed the button at the same time and the business neighbour came down the aisle and said “oh, hello” to the shopping neighbour, then “which ones will i take?” and the shopping neighbour gave them two bags and they both got off together and walked down the path chatting. it brought tears to my eyes but actually i have been feeling teary heaps.

i feel quite lonely but i have a strong good gossipy feeling about everything and everyone, and am full of warmth. maybe that isn’t true really but i feel generally quite positive about people and i like that. i guess it doesn’t make me friendly or nice to be around but it’s a good outwards way to be. as usual i am a bit down on myself.

i like to know what people are looking forward to.

what are you looking forward to? i really would like to know.

i am looking forward to having my own house. i am looking forward to walking on the hill. i am looking forward to writing to cece and emily. i am looking forward to saturday. i am especially looking forward to going to melbourne. i am looking forward to drawing and recording new pieces.

i think it is better to end those sentence with an exclamation mark.

i am looking forward to all those things!

well, i hope nobody thinks i am crazy or bad. i actually quite like writing my blog and letters and i hope it is alright to keep trying.

in my philosophy class we learned about the world of the forms.

that day in the classroom the lights were out so the projection was clearer. i couldn’t see at all and so i used my imagination. the cave, the escape, the perfect or ‘true’ reality. it made for a very warped understanding of the idea. or maybe actually i didn’t understand at all. if you think of light and colour and movement, if you think of what the word ‘form’ is shaped like, if you think of traversing a place or space that has no points of reference but that is completely full and empty at the same time – then this is what i imagined. later, when i talked things through with my philosophy friend Jack, i explained my internal visual interpretation. i described it like a place where everything is ‘more real’. he said “wait, did you think about this as an actual place?” and “i like this idea of something being more real!”.

after that i told him about this thing i have and think about often. a state i can be in that i have called ‘unreality’. (maybe it is important to say now i cried in the darkness of the classroom).

i have noticed that i often think about and refer to things as being ‘real’ or ‘unreal’ or ‘more real’. i’m still thinking about what i mean when i use these terms. this is something that i like about philosophy, or learning any new thing; defining the terms in the context of a new knowledge. i do this, i have words i use, terms and phrases, that i use in context, that i feel need to be defined for proper or more comprehensive and compassionate understanding.

i want to define this ‘unreality’, i want to explain what i mean. i want to be understood and accepted, but i feel like i can’t do this. maybe i feel not smart enough, or misunderstood already. i don’t know. maybe the drama of being so internal is something i cherish. but it is hard. what is reality?

i spend most of my time indulging in my thoughts. my imagination controls how i experience the world. this is frightening and also the safest place to be: a contradiction! i am ruled by appetite, but the world relies on reason. i think so much about people, and this makes me anxious and constantly on the verge of panic. somehow this feels real though, it feels open and good. and damaging, forceful, ‘crazy’.

that is not what i meant to write. i wanted to explain my ‘unreality’. i have tried, in the real world and in letters. people have said i could be psychic, that it is interesting, that i should see a professional. i feel wholly insignificant, i feel worthless and ugly but i also feel in control, intrinsic, indulgent and interesting within unreality.. i’m IN it. i don’t know. is it important to define something like this?


April 20, 2016

I’m waiting and the walls are shuddering with anticipation. I can hear myself breathing but that’s all i can hear, or all i can fathom. if i lie down my heart thudders in my chest and i feel huge and scared. I sit or stand but i’m still waiting. If i said “hey!”, what would that look like? maybe i can keep waiting but everything that’s holding together is finally breaking apart.

it’s all breaking apart again.

I had this idea for a library service, you write up a card to recall a book you lent to someone. Not just the name of the book but the story of who has it, why it’s lost to you, why it’s precious.

I wonder why everything feels so urgent when i’m used to this, i know how it goes.


April 2, 2016

i’ve been thinking about why i haven’t been able to write, even letters. especially letters maybe. i thought i must feel scared but i don’t think so.

i feel dishonest. and i feel ashamed and i feel stuck in something.

and i feel like i can’t do it anymore. write letters or anything.

i feel like that.

i want to be encouraged maybe, but i also know i have something certain that i would like.

maybe, though actually, i dunno.

there’s too much but not anything inside me. that’s hard because i am so big.