Hi blog
Date: Oct 11th, 2007 12:00:12 am - Subscribe
Mood: connected
I've got a confession to make... I forgot you were here, not only did I forget you were here, I neglected you. I'm not sure if I neglected you because I got bored with you, or whether it's because I've been cheating on you with fuck knows how many other blogs and projects, I know that I've got zero attention span and a sub-zero level of commitment to anything or anyone, there is, of course, the possibility that I've been working, although that isn't a possibility any more, I could have also neglected you for any, all, or none of the following reasons: I'm a bitch, I've been working, screwing, poking myself, giving head, getting head, shitting, pissing, writing, sleeping, watching tv, blanking out, dying, living... What the fuck, the truth is that I had somewhere else to go. It's a shame I didn't finish you, I didn't realise how calm and peaceful it felt in here, not only that, since I dumped my last blog, it would've been good to have had a back-up some place... All of that shit aside, I may be back, or maybe not, it's weird that people waste their hosting space in blogosphere keeping dead blogs...
I feel like I'm in a graveyard.
Gotta go, fuck knows why, 'cause I've got nothing much to go to.
It's strange what you can stumble across in the old Wayback Time Machine...
Reincarnation...
Some things would be better disappearing from the universe altogether.
Shit trails all over the place...
Outta here
catch up with you again later
or
maybe not.
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Change of Scene
Date: May 6th, 2004 8:05:24 am - Subscribe
Now 
Just something different. I don't know how often I'll be updating this place, it just depends on whether or not anything worth sharing with you comes to mind.
As you can see, I've filtered out a hell of a lot of stuff that used to exist on my old blog. I've just kept a handful of written pieces that mean something to me.
The stories you see here were written when I was being true to myself, before I became influenced by people and things going on in blogworld - before I lost my way and somehow got caught up in the 'loop'.
They're pretty simple pieces of writing. People who have been following me for a while will remember them. Nothing sensational or over the top.
As it should be.
I can't guarantee regular updates at the moment.
I can't guarantee any updates at all.
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Gurneys and Pantry Shelves
Date: May 4th, 2004 6:44:13 am - Subscribe
When I was a small kid my mother used to help lay-out dead bodies in a hospital morgue. She'd point out specimen jars containing an assortment of preserved body parts, organs and fetuses as inanely as if she were showing me a selection of conserves on a pantry shelf.
Playing hide-and-seek amongst white, sheet-draped, steel gurneys and memory games with toe-tags, (trying to match up unidentified John and Jane Doe's), were familiar childhood games.
During the three years I frequented the morgue with my mother, there had been only one time when I'd been afraid. A new body had been wheeled in, a silvery haired man aged anywhere from 50 - 100, when I was a kid there was no real concept of 'age', people were either young or old.
The man lay on his back, his eyes were still open, looking very much like the fog-glazed eyes of a dead fish. I recall being slightly surprised at a couple of pink blotches that marked his cheeks, the patches looked like blusher hurriedly applied by an amateur. Most bodies I witnessed had been dead for at least an hour and their complexion had turned a grey/white pallor. It wasn't often I saw a 'fresh' one.
I recall putting two fingers into my mouth and wetting them with saliva, I reached over to wipe at the man's face, thinking that perhaps, the pinkish blotches would wash off. To my horror, as I leant over the man's chest, a sudden gush of air expelled from his lungs and one arm involuntarily shot up in the air, almost knocking me off my feet.
I ran to the other side of the room, colliding into my mother who was checking a toe-tag.
"He's alive!" I hollered.
To this day I can still remember the sound of my mother's laughter, chiming against stainless steel, as she lifted me up and carried me back to the silver-haired man. She pulled my arm away from around her neck and placed it on the old man's chest.
"No silly." She explained, "He just had some air left over in his lungs. He died breathing in."
"It's not the dead you need to be frightened of ", she cautioned me, "but those who are still alive..."
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Bubbles
Date: May 3rd, 2004 12:30:40 pm - Subscribe
Wow...
It's like I've finally been able to remove the silver coins from my eyelids and open my eyes. I can see things on so many different levels now.
I have a birds-eye view,
a mid-range view
a subterranean view
an internal view
an external view
and...
everything looks so much clearer.
The weather forecast is predicting that a cyclone is going to hit the North Island of New Zealand some time this evening or early tomorrow morning. That's cool, I love storms. When a storm vents its full fury down onto the earth, no other single, sound can be heard over the top of it regardless of how loud it is. Storms are ideal for creating sound-proof spaces...
and even though storms leave a hell-as, shit mess behind for a while, everything looks so much fresher and clearer after the clean-up. Some people today have tried to enlighten me. They haven't told me anything that I hadn't already figured out for myself.
They think that they are two steps ahead of me when they are really twelve
paces behind.
When you were a kid did you ever attempt to blow the biggest, soapiest most
colorful bubble and then try to catch it in the palm your hand only to watch it go
pop!
...Leaving a cool, damp patch?
Did it ever piss you off that something as flimsy, transparent and fragile looking as a bubble could turn out to be something so darn, deceptively strong? The bubble could have settled down in your hand for a while, but even then it would have only done so momentarily, offering the softest, faintest glimmer of hope, it could have randomly chosen to drift away and burst elsewhere, still painfully within your field of vision, but not too far off into the distance
...Or it could have
burst right there on the palm of your hand leaving you feeling cold and powerless.
When I was a kid, no matter how much I knew the odds of a bubble bursting in my hand were pretty darn high, it never stopped me from trying to catch one,
Now that I'm a woman, I know better
and I just let it float away
or I simply
become
the bubble.
Dust and bubbles. You can't go past them...
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What Is 'Art'?
Date: May 3rd, 2004 12:27:12 pm - Subscribe
Sometimes, if you feel the need to question just what the fuck 'Art' really is, you need go no further than those words spoken 'from the mouths of babes'.
I skipped the last two days of work due to 'lack of motivation'. Locking myself in my room and hibernating under the bed covers have been my main objectives these past 48 hours. I just felt as though my mind needed a rest. I was sick and tired of thinking. Fucked off without the constant mind-games going on around me, in fact, if someone had offered me a full fucken frontal lobotomy I would have gladly accepted it. I didn't want battles with my partner and I didn't want to watch my son self-destructing in a shed. I didn't want to hear the phone ringing, I didn't want to eat and even fucken breathing felt like a strain.
But today I woke up after only a couple of hours sleep and suddenly found myself thinking, "What the fuck, I've been through way worse than this shit, so I'm gonna quit feeling so self-sympathetic, hit the bastard back if he back-hands me and get the fuck back in the classroom where I belong!"
This morning my car didn't pull a U turn on me. It drove me all the way to work and, as if driving on autopilot, parked itself in my regular parking spot. The Principal gave me the usual scowl she reserves for someone who has cost the school the ill-afforded price of a scummy relief teacher and I returned the favor.
When I found myself in the familiar, safe surroundings of the classroom, everything started to fall into place. Life just clicked back into gear. The only piss-off is that I'm training up a student teacher who is sitting in the corner of my fucken room taking notes on everything I fucken do and say. I feel like a bug under a microscope. If she wasn't here I'd just plod through the next couple of days giving the kids some 'Time-Saving' stuff and lay back a little, but as things stand, I have to actually appear to look like I'm doing my job.
...So this afternoon I was having this little 'Art' appreciation session with the children and one of the questions I threw at them was "What is Art?"
Their responses enlightened me, especially as there has been a lot of heated discussion all over the internet lately as to 'What validates itself as being Art?' Their answers lent me to thinking whether anyone really has the right to determine what intangibles lend themselves to being called 'Art'. Anyway, I think that the pure, non-judgmental responses of my classroom children define Art, far better than I could attempt to do, so here they are:
What is Art?............
Art is colorful
but Art can be black and white
Art can be shapes that move and change
You can hear Art, sometimes it sounds like a roaring waterfall, other times it sounds like a tiny trickle of tap water.
Art can taste like sour grapes
Art can taste like honey
Art are pictures that are stuck in your head trying to get out onto paper
You can build Art
You can break Art
Art makes you feel all kinds of things
Art can make you tingle
Art can make you cry
Sometimes Art is ugly like a monster mask
Art can be imaginary like a fairytale
Art can be true like a photograph
Art makes you want to shout
Art makes you want to clap your hands
Art is just Art.
Pretty profound for 10 and 11 year old children hu?
Kids keep me here.
I wonder if I could build a new home in the classroom
because everywhere else fucken sucks.
Back to bed.
It's turned cold again.
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Dust Is Peaceful
Date: May 3rd, 2004 12:24:53 pm - Subscribe
wonder what I was thinking and feeling before I was conceived. I'm sure that I must have been an atom or something floating around in the atmosphere somewhere, and I'm sure I must have felt something. I'm closing my eyes trying to visualize myself as an embryo floating around in someone's womb, not necessarily my mother's womb, any womb, and then I'm trying to back-track further, much further. I have this weird feeling that if I close my eyes tightly, concentrate on an imaginary focus point, let the darkness completely engulf me and just try to empty my head of all thoughts, then I will be able to get some kind of realization of what I felt like before I existed
and what I feel is nothingness...
But that can't be right can it? I mean we all must have been something and felt something prior to the physical act of conception, even if we were each just a speck of dust lingering in a doorway waiting for sunlight to make us shine. For as long as the earth has been spinning we must have been existing on it in some form or another, it doesn't make sense that we shouldn't have been.
I wonder if dust particles can think and feel?
Dust fascinates me because it silently creeps up on things like television sets, computers and dressing tables, it settles on top of them and it's like it doesn't evolve from anything, nobody gives birth to it, it just appears...
and when we die they say words like 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust...' and I may be wrong, because I've only heard of it but never witnessed it myself, but I believe that our bones turn to dust, when eventually, after fuck knows how many years, they decompose and break down
...so I was thinking, maybe all of the dust in the house, the silent dust that settles on television sets, computers and dressing tables, the dust that just mysteriously appears as if from nowhere, is really 'bone-dust', the dust from the bones of everyone who has died before us and after us
and if that is the case
maybe dust can think and feel after all
and it's possible we never really leave this planet when we die and we never really enter it when we are born, but that we are here all along, infinitely, in the form of little dust particles.
When I think of dust I feel at peace with myself and the universe - so it's a good enough excuse for me not to bother cleaning up the house tonight.
I'll just let the dust settle...
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I'll Drink Alone
Date: May 3rd, 2004 12:22:58 pm - Subscribe
I'm not going to...
leap off the edge just because somebody tells me to. I'm not going to push the boundaries to satisfy the morbid curiosity of others. I'm not going to post photos of my tits or ass or twat. I'm not going to invent some sensational story just to draw in the crowds. I'm not going to fake my own death. I'm not going to invite anyone to the scene of a car crash. I'm not going to stick a dildo or tubes up my nose, ass or twat.
I'm not gonna fake insanity. I'm not going to mind-fuck anyone out there and tell you anything I don't mean. I'm not going to pretend I'm a fucken 'She' and then turn out to be a 'He' or vice-versa. I'm not going to tell you bullshit for bullshit's sake. I'm not going to pose with a syringe in my arm or a bag of coke in my hands. I'm not going to post gory photos from rotten.com. I'm not going to be the star in my own snuff movie or become an overnight star in some cheap fucken porn movie. I'm not going to be your puppet. I'm not going to believe the sentiments you express in your emails and respond to them. I'm not going to be this week's flavour and next week's clown.
I'm not going to be fucken sucked in.
I'm going to be a 'B' grade movie. I'm going to be boring sometimes. The sound track will hiss and crackle, the picture quality will be sub-standard and the acting will be fucken drab. I'll speak in monotone. I'll be 'AM' when you're wanting 'FM'. I'll be your 56k dial up when you wish you had broadband.
I'll be the 'extra' in my own movie who blends into the background so you don't know I'm there. I'll dress in camouglage, stand in a jungle and make like a tree. I'll be the visa card that was never approved.
I'll be the television channel you glanced at for two seconds and then hit the remote on. I'll be the telephone call that nobody answered. I'll be the birthday party where nobody showed up. I'll be the Hollywood Premier that never happened. I'll be the red carpet that nobody walked on, the Academy Award that was never given. I'll be the book that was never read, the poem that was never written, the music that was never composed and the song that was never sung.
but...
I'll still be me when the party's over. I'll still be me when the guests all leave. I'll still be me when the lights are turned off...
and I'll still be able to drink red wine and enjoy my own company
when I'm completely
alone in the
dark.
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I Need A House With Brick Walls
Date: May 3rd, 2004 12:19:44 pm - Subscribe
The kids in the class were cool, a real mixture, a couple of cheeky fuckers thrown in but that just adds to the texture - but...I've kinda gotten used to staying at home since the Christmas break, rising when I feel like it, sleeping when I feel like it, (if at all), fucking when I feel like it, warezing when I feel like it and blogging when I feel like it. Just doing things in my own time without anyone telling me to follow a fucken timetable or schedule was cool. I'd like to be my own boss, tell myself what to do, tell myself to do everything or nothing.
I couldn't have a home-based job where anyone 'respectable' comes over, because the place looks like a run-down brothel thanks to my son's unique style of interior design, also, what do you say to people when as they bypass the tinny house in the garden to get to the main door? Darn, there goes home-based tutoring for an idea.
I could try drug dealing, if you're discrete and do it right there's plenty of stuff available around here and I wouldn't be short of contacts, plus I have the added advantage that I wouldn't snort, swallow or inject my own shit 'cause I have a first-hand experience of how fucked up it makes you - but that wouldn't be setting a 'good example' for my son and I couldn't live with my conscience if I fucked up other people's kids the way he is, stuff having a conscience - there goes that idea.
I could be a whore, no one would complain about state of the house, in fact, they'd feel quite at home and it pays a darn sight better than teaching, but my fiance has just told me he's not 'into' sharing or taking leftovers and I care about him too much to do it without his consent, (darn, there goes that fucken conscience again).
I could go on an unemployment benefit but it wouldn't pay the bills and I wouldn't be eligible just because I feel like quitting the 9:00 - 5:00 rat-race, I'd have to get sacked from teaching and in order for that to happen I'd have to do something really drastic like...
go to work as pissed as a fart...
go to work as high as a kite...
go to work naked...
assault or kill a couple of kids...
tell the boss to get fucked...
The last option is one that most people feel like doing at some point or another and seems the most plausible, but I think if I do plan on getting sacked, I want to do it in a blaze of glory and do all of the above with the exception of assaulting or killing the kids - 'cause kids are cool.
My fiance wants a baby. Fair enough, he's forty two years old and never had a kid of his own. I love kids and I'd like to have his baby, but the world is too fucked up and so is my son. By the time I right the wrongs and plaster the holes up in the walls I'll probably be too old to be able to have one. I need a house that has brick walls.
12 months maternity leave would give me a break from work.
but who wants to raise a baby in the eye of a hurricane? It just aint safe around here...
I'll leave the alarm clock set for 6:00AM and think about things.
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A Kid Named Alex
Date: May 3rd, 2004 12:17:31 pm - Subscribe
Alex was what the school called 'A transient child'. By the age of 12 he had been enrolled at 20 primary schools - almost two a year. His mother, step-father, two cousins and five siblings moved house whenever social welfare paid a visit. Someone had reported that Alex had been abused again. Alex always wore long sleeves pulled over his arms to hide the bruises, even in Winter. Alex hid behind the visor of a cap he wore back-to-front. Alex rarely looked anyone in the eyes, his face was always down-turned. If he should look up, Alex scowled. He hated school. He hated other kids. He hated teachers. He hated the world. Alex had built a fortress around himself.
Alex didn't believe he was good at anything but fighting. He could throw a mean punch. Alex could scare all of the other children away with his anger. He'd throw tables, chairs and desks as amunition. If Alex hit you - he wouldn't stop.
One day Alex was drawing a picture of the clouds and sea and a sky with one lone bird flying across it to nowhere in particular. The picture was detailed, beautiful, magical. Alex loved drawing.
"That's awesome" Alex's teacher told him.
Alex hated compliments. Alex tore the picture up and pushed over his desk.
One day Alex drew a picture of a lady. She looked like an angel. Somehow Alex drew in such a way he could make the skin on the angel glow. Alex walked up to his teacher, looked up at her and took off his cap.
He gave the picture to his teacher and said, "This is for you."
Alex's teacher thanked him and looked down so that he couldn't see the tears in her eyes. Alex wasn't ready for that.
The next day Alex got a certificate for Art. He shone with pride. The teacher noticed how beautiful his big, brown eyes were, how long and silky his eye lashes were. Alex was beautiful.
"I've never gotten a certificate before." He said.
"Really? That's surprising, you're really talented at art." The teacher told him.
Alex took the certificate home.
He didn't show up for school the next day, or the day after that or the next...
Alex turned up a week later. He had his cap on backwards again and wore long sleeves. The bruise around his eye had faded to yellow, but it was still there, it told a tragic story.
"Hi Alex". His teacher said.
"Fuck off!" Alex shouted.
"What happened?" His teacher asked.
"You made me get a fucken hiding that's what happened!" Alex yelled and ran out of the classroom.
Alex had gotten a hiding from his father. Alex's father hated his certificate. Hated Art.
"Fucken girly subject!" His father had shouted at him tearing up the certificate. "Why couldn't you get a fucken certificate for rugby or something?" and then he'd put the boot in.
Alex stopped drawing.
A few days later his family moved on again. A new suburb. A new school.
The old school stamped his file: "Whereabouts unknown - transient child."
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Calm Before The Storm...
Date: May 3rd, 2004 12:05:58 pm - Subscribe
On the third day of Christmas my dealer gave to me
One pair of socks, two T-Shirts and a
new bag of crystal rock P...
I reckon I should take out shares in the New Lynn Placemakers hardware store...they've sold more white powder to me in the last three months than all the junkies in K Road could have ever snorted. My 17 yo son has punched yet another hole in the wall of the hallway during a 'P' rage. It comes and goes...Jekyl and Hyde. It's ironic how you hear on the news here how the Government and Police are trying to fight 'P' in NewZealand, yeah right...they couldn't even help out a 17 year old kid when he needed it. So we wait out the calm spots, like the calm before the storm...waiting...waiting...I stare at the beads of sweat above his top lip, watch his fists clench and unclench as his knuckles turn crimson, wait for the transformation...he's been awake for four days running, I can hear him pummelling at the punch-bag in his sleepout over and over and over and over and over and over and over...
one morning I'm gonna walk out there and find him dead...
"What's Santa bringing you for Christmas son?"
"He'll bring me a bag of 'P' if I'm good..."
He used to be an A+ student...
But he's chosen nightmares for dreams.
So I wait for the calm spot again...like a comma in a sentence, a temporary pause...and I pretend that everything is normal in our white, suburban house...with the holes in the walls...I don't think I'll bother filling those holes any more, I'll let the rats crawl inside through them.
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