I’m Not Here To Spoil Anyone’s Punch Line:

I woke up early one morning and it no longer seemed to matter–

I’ve spent this evening with my boss learning loads about all things wine and olives and philosophy and life–

He’s cool my boss.

It felt refreshing to be dropped home just now by someone who only ever wanted for me to be myself and to drink something and to talk interestingly like– And to do my job between the hours of noon and 8pm most days.

Sweet.

It’s a rarity.

In most parts.

I recall New York, only because it’s the last foreign city I’ve found myself in. There are other cities to recall, all of which pale in comparison to Sydney because I live here and because I’m largely appalled by what I see–

Allow me this indulgence.

I have a lot to say on the topic.

A lot.

So.

Let me begin with this, which I borrowed from Leonard today in between work things today hat involved copious phone calls about wine– and a few thoughts I had to myself over silent moments stolen from cigarettes and toilet cubicles.

Just a few.

Borrowed from page 115 (which I am now up to– there is simply no time left for reading it would seem, despite my efforts to read more than talk– shitfuckshit) usurped from Death of a Lady’s Man. Check:

…We have all appeared here together. Creation and menstruation, birth and the birth from which nothing appears, these are the awesome limits of our existence here. Also, nothing happens when you fuck yourself.

When will we collaborate again, men and women, to establish a measure for our mighty and different angles? When will we speak frankly again about our insane and homicidal appetites? We are each other’s Mystery. This Mystery will not yield to violence or dissection. Please don’t start singing.

So does it stand up as a blog unto it’s own at 23:51 on this here, Tuesday evening, almost Wednesday?

Hardly.

I have nine minutes.

Allow let me elaborate.

I am ashing my cigarette into a soup bowl.

I am drinking something red and relatively cheap– full of ancient tannins.

I am almost tired, but not quite– and mainly, largely, not much in the business of being swayed or woo-ed by much.

It’s a curious place to find oneself.

Why write so furiously, by dad bemoans– Why say something every day– in a hurry– something you may only ultimately live to regret– You can’t take it back, he says, a daily blog– You’ve said it. It’s done. Published. Printed. For all the world to read.

Yeah dad. that’s the point.

But you can’t take it back.

I don’t want to take anything back.

He doesn’t get it– yet– I know he will. Eventually.

But true to form, true to every form– I learned a year or two ago now– that my purpose in life is not to convince anyone of anything right away–

What’s the point?

Really?

How many times does a man change his mind in a life time? Let alone a woman.

It all comes down to oxytocin, I explained to my boss earlier tonight– All of it.

Men don’t produce it.

At all.

That’s the discrepency.

He laughed, as he argued–

That’s not entirely true– he informed me– I know a man in South Australia who produced a tipple he labelled ‘Oxytocin,’ sold like hot cakes–

Or something fast and ready–

Made sense.

Especially to women.

I keep meaning to write this big, grand blog about casual sex but I’ve neither had the time nor the energy since it’s inception to produce–

I want it to be good.

Articulate.

Detailed.

But it’s still in my head. And it’s useless there, I know. A thought is irrelevant until it becomes something tangible. Something people can touch. You don’t have to relate to it immediately, I’m not in that business anymore– Why bother? As I said, imagine how many times you’ve changed your mind in the past 12 months? Imagine…

Now times that by how frequently you work, fuck, sleep, eat, exercise, walk from a-to-b, call your mother, do your laundry and wipe your arse.

It’s a busy thing, life.

And there is no mind mouse.

That’s what makes great books so great.

And great people so remarkable.

And daily blogs, so fucking hard.

It takes work. A lot of work.

I’m proud of the work I’ve put in to this bad boy– but it pales, in all honesty– to the work I’ve put in to these blogs in my mind.

I woke up early one morning and it no longer seemed to matter–

I’ve spent this evening with my boss learning loads about all things wine and olives and philosophy and life–

He’s cool my boss.

It felt refreshing to be dropped home just now by someone who only ever wanted for me to be myself and to drink something and to talk interestingly like– And to do my job between the hours of noon and 8pm most days.

Sweet.

It’s a rarity.

In most parts.

I recall New York, only because it’s the last foreign city I’ve found myself in. There are other cities to recall, all of which pale in comparison to Sydney because I live here and because I’m largely appalled by what I see–

Allow me this indulgence.

I have a lot to say on the topic.

A lot.

So.

Let me begin with this, which I borrowed from Leonard today in between work things today hat involved copious phone calls about wine– and a few thoughts I had to myself over silent moments stolen from cigarettes and toilet cubicles.

Just a few.

Borrowed from page 115 (which I am now up to– there is simply no time left for reading it would seem, despite my efforts to read more than talk– shitfuckshit) usurped from Death of a Lady’s Man. Check:

…We have all appeared here together. Creation and menstruation, birth and the birth from which nothing appears, these are the awesome limits of our existence here. Also, nothing happens when you fuck yourself.

When will we collaborate again, men and women, to establish a measure for our mighty and different angles? When will we speak frankly again about our insane and homicidal appetites? We are each other’s Mystery. This Mystery will not yield to violence or dissection. Please don’t start singing.

So does it stand up as a blog unto it’s own at 23:51 on this here, Tuesday evening, almost Wednesday?

Hardly.

I have nine minutes.

Allow let me elaborate.

I am ashing my cigarette into a soup bowl.

I am drinking something red and relatively cheap– full of ancient tannins.

I am almost tired, but not quite– and mainly, largely, not much in the business of being swayed or woo-ed by much.

It’s a curious place to find oneself.

Why write so furiously, by dad bemoans– Why say something every day– in a hurry– something you may only ultimately live to regret– You can’t take it back, he says, a daily blog– You’ve said it. It’s done. Published. Printed. For all the world to read.

Yeah dad. that’s the point.

But you can’t take it back.

I don’t want to take anything back.

He doesn’t get it– yet– I know he will. Eventually.

But true to form, true to every form– I learned a year or two ago now– that my purpose in life is not to convince anyone of anything right away–

What’s the point?

Really?

How many times does a man change his mind in a life time? Let alone a woman.

It all comes down to oxytocin, I explained to my boss earlier tonight– All of it.

Men don’t produce it.

At all.

That’s the discrepency.

He laughed, as he argued–

That’s not entirely true– he informed me– I know a man in South Australia who produced a tipple he labelled ‘Oxytocin,’ sold like hot cakes–

Or something fast and ready–

Made sense.

Especially to women.

I keep meaning to write this big, grand blog about casual sex but I’ve neither had the time nor the energy since it’s inception to produce–

I want it to be good.

Articulate.

Detailed.

But it’s still in my head. And it’s useless there, I know. A thought is irrelevant until it becomes something tangible. Something people can touch. You don’t have to relate to it immediately, I’m not in that business anymore– Why bother? As I said, imagine how many times you’ve changed your mind in the past 12 months? Imagine…

Now times that by how frequently you work, fuck, sleep, eat, exercise, walk from a-to-b, call your mother, do your laundry and wipe your arse.

It’s a busy thing, life.

And there is no mind mouse.

That’s what makes great books so great.

And great people so remarkable.

And daily blogs, so fucking hard.

It takes work. A lot of work.

I’m proud of the work I’ve put in to this bad boy– but it pales, in all honesty– to the work I’ve put in to these blogs in my mind.

Here’s a wee shot of me doing Half Moon Pose in my laddered stockings– just for prosperity and SEO ratings…

It’s funny, mainly.

You try typing at this hour.

You try articulating your thoughts to anyone other than your lover, at this hour.

You try convincing your old man of the value of this thing– this machine.

You try doing it every day. Reading your fan mail, which has dwindled, LOADS in recent months– it’s all mainly criticisms from family and SPAM. That’s it. That’s what I get.

The occasional call from an ex- who still thinks I’m cool.

Or a friend who didn’t know that–

I know there’s more– I know that what you see is not entirely what you get– I know that there are loads of you who don’t create shit but read everyday. Which is cool. It’s all cool. But it’s weird. Each and every one of you get something from me each and every day– What I get from you, remains to be seen.

Happy birthday Leonard. With any luck, you’ll catch my wave, and somewhere in between we’ll share a giggle about all this debris.

Because it’s ok that the majority of us are all voyuers– Really.

Just don’t come crying to me next time you learn that someone has decided to die or leave or quit or steal or beg or borrow or bail out–

Because it’s not news.

You know?

There is nothing shocking anymore– Not really. Not if you’re paying attention. Not at all.

We’re all trying to connect in our own weird way and we’re all largely, failing, fucking dismally.

We’re all so bothered by who might read what– how we might be held accountable– but that’s just the issue, right? No one is anymore. We can say whatever we want but heaven forbid we take the time to articulate it, properly, you know, and then publish it, officially. Shit. What a fucking mind field.

I get where my dad is coming from, I really do. I guess I’m just a little more pissed off than him. About most things. Plus I’ve no one to support. I gain nothing by simply trying to get by–

I realise how many pockets of disrespect this main infurl–

I understand how many toes I may tread on by saying this or that– but here’s the thing…

I’m bothering to sit down and articulate my thoughts– albeit tired and somewhat well quuaffed at the end of a long day– I’m bothering.

How many happy idiots have you known to dump all number of nonsensical items at dinner parties, night clubs and bus stops the world over? Only to be left and lost in the haze of he said something and she said something else once upon late one night that made me feel something but I don’t really remember.

Eh?

I don’t think we were put on the planet to forget shit, or ignore shit, or disregard things in general– I really don’t.

x.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: