Pocket.

Well.

Allow me to be completely frank for a moment about something you, yourself may well deem bloody obvious.

Writing a blog every single day, I have come to realise, is actually going to be remarkably fucking challenging.

So challenging in fact, I have began to mourn my old self in place of the new.

The desired new.

The new you.

The new self.

Grieving.

Losing.

Lost.

Whatever it is I’m trying to be here.

I write this because this is the first weekend of 52 weekends, I intend to write and not with intention, but you know, evidence, and… well, as said before, here in lies somewhat of a challenge.

Yesterday it was a series of unexpected events: For example my sister phoned me a minute before I finished work to say that she was in town and in Redfern and very much in the mood to eat and drink and swim and vent about her week.

Cool.

The quick sushi on Stanley dalliance turns in to drinks in North Bondi following some laps.

A few friends.

A few more drinks.

All the ways one finds themselves having to extricate said self from a situation to go be in some other situation. And you know, write.

I scheduled in my blog like I might do a jog or an urgent, necessary hair wash last night—I’ve got this thing I have to do—excuse me—while I do this thing I have to do.

Change my knickers.

Feed the dog.

Water the plants.

Pay rent.

Whatever.

And then again today:

And this is the good bit, actually.

Today I felt flatter than I had done yesterday which had been pretty fucking flat to be frank. Tears before bed time and the rest of that emotive, hanging in by a thread stuff—

I rose early, of course and found myself sniffling and sobbing about the apartment.

Not wanting to wake my over-exhausted little sis I took my laptop and my heavy heart across the street for coffee and newspapers.

A sure fire way to cure what ills… usually… not today.

A dip at Redleaf beach (pool, whatever) with a friend I couldn’t talk to, in a city I feel I can’t connect with, on a day too fucking hot for epiphanies and the like… it occurred to me…

What I was really mourning was not the end of a relationship.

Is not the end of a familiarity, or a way to spend a Saturday, or a feeling you get when you wake up…

But rather something much more about the feeling of becoming something new.

And ultimately,

actually,

wanting to resist THAT on    e v e r y   level.

I met with my darling new friend Hedley just now for vino and words at Pocket bar in Darlinghurst. We exchanged some pretty hefty writerly ideas and she asked me what this whole blog thing was about and low and behold—

it was not too hot a day for an epiphany after all.

————

You go your way.

I’ll go your way too.

– Leonard Cohen.

————-

Sometimes I like to take provocative self portraits,

then post them on the net.

I’m sure you see why.

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Comments
One Response to “Pocket.”
  1. Hedley Galt says:

    I’m going your way baby…

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