Today has been a slow and grumbly day - a folllow on from yesterday where I arrived home at 6ish and hid in my room - migraine thumping.
While popping pills and swilling water and bathing myself in lavender, I also read saturday's herald. The SMH is such shit it makes me suicidal every time i read it. smug beige gloss shit.
So today - I checked my email, and played with some tickle tests. they sent me results of my suitable partners for this week and urged me to post my photo. I think my personal ad was something quite sinister and psychotic so I wonder about these winsome maidens who offer themselves to me unseen online. Sometimes I think I should write to some of them. Their eyes implore me to - but Oh god - I can't - it would be playing and I'm not really interested at all - just curious........
On the tickle tests - I've done an IQ test "congratulations! you have an IQ of 46, this puts you in the top 99.99% of people on the planet! For more on your intelligence quota please enter your credit card detail...." and a career suitabilitiy test (OK I filled this one our for real - and they suggested I should be in something creative like academia - but before I sobbed they offered me a free online remote learning course so I was reassured).
Todays tests were on my sexual energy. I'm a 7. What the fuck does that mean? It's not a 7/10 or a 7/100 - just a random number. and Also my relationships color. (no U). I'm red. Is that cadmium red?, or red ochre? carmine perhaps? crimson lake? vermillion? madder? I guess these things aren't made for painters - a rouge ain't ever a rouge or a rouge or a rouge for us.........
I've felt increadibly tired for the past week. My bones ache when I walk, my tits hang down to the pavement, my hands ache when I type. For every day I get out of bed - to do even the most minor thing - I have to spend about 20 hours in bed to recover. I kid you not. Maybe My bed is just too comfortable. I wish I had some job where I have to lie in bed and read all day. Oh yeah, shit. I do. I just wish I had a lap top - so I could do my online reading in bed. Oh fuck - then I'd turn into that scary character from Lautreamonts "the chant of Maldoror......."
wait while I tyr to find it on google
Je suis sale. Les poux me rongent. Les pourceaux, quand ils me
regardent, vomissent. Les croûtes et les escarres de la lèpre
ont écaillé ma peau, couverte de pus jaunâtre. Je ne connais
pas l'eau des fleuves, ni la rosée des nuages. Sur ma nuque,
comme sur un fumier, pousse un énorme champignon, aux
pédoncules ombellifères. Assis sur un meuble informe, je n'ai
pas bougé mes membres depuis quatre siècles. Mes pieds ont
pris racine dans le sol et composent, jusqu'à mon ventre, une
sorte de végétation vivace, remplie d'ignobles parasites, qui
ne dérive pas encore de la plante, et qui n'est plus de la
chair. Cependant mon coeur bat. Mais comment battrait-il, si
la pourriture et les exhalaisons de mon cadavre (je n'ose pas
dire corps) ne le nourrissaient abondamment? Sous mon
aisselle gauche, une famille de crapauds a pris résidence,
et, quand l'un d'eux remue, il me fait des chatouilles.
Prenez garde qu'il ne s'en échappe un, et ne vienne gratter,
avec sa bouche, le dedans de votre oreille: il serait ensuite
capable d'entrer dans votre cerveau. Sous mon aisselle
droite, il y a un caméléon qui leur fait une chasse
perpétuelle, afin de ne pas mourir de faim: il faut que
chacun vive. Mais, quand un parti déjoue complétement les
ruses de l'autre, ils ne trouvent rien de mieux que de ne pas
se gêner, et sucent la graisse délicate qui couvre mes côtes:
j'y suis habitué. Une vipère méchante a dévoré ma verge et a
pris sa place: elle m'a rendu ennuque, cette infâme. Oh! si
j'avais pu me défendre avec mes bras paralysés; mais, je
crois plutôt qu'ils se sont changés en bûches. Quoi qu'il en
soit, il importe de constater que le sang ne vient plus y
promener sa rougeur. Deux petits hérissons, qui ne croissent
plus, ont jeté à un chien, qui n'a pas refusé, l'intérieur de
mes testicules: l'épiderme, soigneusement lavé, ils ont logé
dedans. L'anus a été intercepté par un crabe; encouragé par
mon inertie, il garde l'entrée avec ses pinces, et me fait
beaucoup de mal! Deux méduses ont franchi les mers,
immédiatement alléchées par un espoir qui ne fut pas trompé.
Elles ont regardé avec attention les deux parties charnues
qui forment le derrière humain, et, se cramponnant à leur
galbe convexe, elles les ont tellement écrasées par une
pression constante, que les deux morceaux de chair ont
disparu, tandis qu'il est resté deux monstres, sortis du
royaume de la viscosité, égaux par la couleur, la forme et la
férocité. Ne parlez pas de ma colonne vertébrale, puisque
c'est un glaive. Oui, oui... je n'y faisais pas attention...
votre demande est juste. Vous désirez savoir, n'est-ce pas,
comment il se trouve implanté verticalement dans mes reins?
Moi-même, je ne me le rappelle pas très clairement;
I just cut and poasted it from maldoror.com. sorry I haven't found a translation online yet - I'll work on one in may spare time. hah!)
basically it is a description of filth and topor - my ideal state! which is probalby why i rememember it!
but it is a suitable opening into todays little pensee which is for Paul -whose funeral anniversary is this friday. It is appropriate that Paul's funeral was the same day as Able recieved her permanent residency stamp in her passport and a rounded way to end my friendship wiht him. My previous intimate contact wiht Paul was while really trashed at a party as he helped me over the fence of some cemetry so I could have wild drunken sex on a gravestone with a beautiful nymph who had casually leapt over the 6 foot palings like some fleet footed deer.
After our bruising encounter with cold granite, nymph and I leapt back over the fench (she leapt - I kind of drunkenly crashed thorugh or dragged myself under it.......) and then retired to further our pursuits in our mutual friends bed. Paul was the type of boy who insisted on being present at such a moment - dear drunken snogs - and boasting about his penis peircing - which kind of got me worried coz I saw no evidence of the kind and spent about a year - freaking out about the throughness of my STD checks. (Like if I couldn't see a whoppping prince albert - how the hell would I not if there was a wart, crab or whopping great chancre?) He later confessed that the prince albert was beside his bed - coz he hdan't had the guts to insert it yet. Phew.
Paul was the also one of the few men alive stupid enough to try to mediate a messy breakup between two lesbians by pashing one in front of the other. Onya Paul! However this act of extreme sports insensitivity actually worked - and deflected the screaming sapphic rage of well... ahem... me away from the nymph and onto his more capable frame. Anywyay all this was over a decade ago and everyone is over it. PAul managed to irritate people in te most extreme and charming manner possible - and get away with it.
He was also really friendly and made me feel welcome into his home or bar stool if I ever needed it. He ought me lots of beers when I was poor or sad or both (and I mena a lot of beers) and bought a vulva at my first show. He was one of those scruffy messy boys that I see as phallic mirrormorphs to myself and who I felt really comfortable around.
He lived around the corner and the last time I saw him I felt really glad that he was probably not ever going to change, but stay the same, funny, obnoxous but genuinely good willing and very very funny and friendly forever. Unfortunately I was right. I guess its better than him turning over a new leaf and becoming some kind of sober housecleaning non wenching corporate wunderkind - but still, I don't like death. The third hand story I heard of causes (I love how in our society everyone asks "how did they die as a way of avoiding the unanswerable WHY did they die?") that apparently he'd had a regular pissup at the townie and been so trashed that he'd decided instead of walking 10 minutes down king street to home - that he'd crash on an aquaintances couch. Poor people woke up the next day to a hangover from hell and a corpse on the couch. Apparently he popped some downers and didn't wake up. Drunk Athsmatic plus downers in winter equals Respiratory failure. One of those accidental suicides that come so easily to athsmatics. (Just like my brother 5 years before.) His family apparently and so courageously took it as suicide and asked for donations to beyond blue. Paul, so funny, cheery and warm hid his black dog too damn well.
So as I bookworm and snuffle unwashed in my saggy pyjamas (not quite the fosseys flannel variety but soft old clothes that pass between doona, couch and a tim tam dash to the corner shop quite well) and skate past my own occasional grips in deathly clutches of despair, I think of Paul and how everyone felt at his funeral, and remind myself that living is hard, change is hard, and that stasis is easy, but deadly. Deadly in the Maldorors sense, as we become granitised in our own sarcophagus of intertia. I'm sinking down into my stomach, hiding from everyone and avoiding my increasingly girthy corpus. Bad bad girl! In any case it's time for me to leave my ugh boots and possibly change from my overalls and skulk up the uni. I leave my stolid silent self here and venture forth to kid myself and others that I'm some kind of dynamo. Believe me I'm not.
The Predator and the Jokester
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