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.

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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?

lent

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.

devotion

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.

i am twenty-nine years old.

i like people. i feel very curious and loving quite a lot of the time. it is exhausting to worry as much as i do about how i fit with people, whether or not i am hurtful or damaging to them. i feel so full of thoughts and feelings for others that i feel sometimes, at my weakest times, that i have no end or i do not matter and that i am not real – that i am not formed properly.

i have been quite scared and lonely.

i’m still trying to work out what i want. what i want to do and be and what i want to have in my life.

i think i am actually quite a sensitive person.

i can’t really think of a joke to end on, but that is how i would like to end this post.

ha!

writer’s block

February 11, 2016

sometimes i go into her room and look around while she’s not there. i don’t touch anything, i just look. i look and think about her mind, how she feels about living. she collects things that make me laugh, i laugh because i feel her humour. little rocks, furry leaves, bits of paper, old stockings. she doesn’t put any photographs up, and i know it’s because she thinks she’s ugly. she is ugly, and fat, but it’s only a problem for her. or we all tell her that, and i think i believe it. her clothes are all over the floor. i think she enjoys mess, likes having to smell everything before she puts it on. everything is a blur to her! sometimes i find something that alludes to her loneliness, which is complete. something bloodied, or something scrunched and cut. she loves with a fierceness i’ve never known, she labours over trinkets for her obsessions, tries to focus all her energies into something never given, something sadly destroyed. today there is a feeling about her space. something unfamiliar. it’s scary. it’s definite. i hate this about her. all or nothing; and she’s always nothing.  i read what she writes sometimes, her name all over everything, love-letters and little notes. she repeats herself and it’s boring.

i quit my job and i feel properly terrified. i have moments of unreality where i tear off my own skin. hope said she knew i’d do it “because her blog is so sad”. i actually try to be funny. i just need this life with all the other lives. letters, reality.

today there was huge scary storm and i walked home laughing because it was so terrifying and dangerous. i couldn’t stop my smile!