Dog of a YEAR

Sorry for lack of posting for the past month. It was a busy time which involved getting a new flatmate, going to melbourne for a conference while all of victoria exploded in flames, then crossing the seas and the USA to New York -then crossing the USA and the seas back again to hawaii, then crossing the seas and the USA in a rather labyrinthine manner to return to New York where I'm slowly emerged from a a state of shock into a state of moderate contentment.you can see pcis of most of the above on my flickr site

Today in brooklyn's chinatown - some shopkeeper gave me a free chinese calendar to celebrate the new year (do you understand it? - I don't!)

anyway - Lunar or otherwise I'm happy to celebrate the end of the year of the dog - it's been a bitch of a time for me for bits of it -other's have been astonishingly good - or just astonishing.

It's nearly 2am on december 31st in New York - on my friend's couch where I'm typing from - and i'm thinking of home where people are gearing up for tonight's fireworks mosquito hazed sodden sweaty frenzy.

Manhattan has been getting progressively more berzerk all week. Pretzel stands catching fire, sirens blaring, hordes of gawking clans of scary midwest honkies and their hordes of spawn, and the big fat funeral of James brown to cap things off.

I've decided to stick to my side of the L-Train, the A-train and everything else that crosses the east river - until monday afternoon when I'm planning to venture out for a POETRY MARATHON.

I've decided that next year will be a time of new challenges and new personal thresholds. I HATE performance poetry as a general principal of random xenophobia, and don't understand poetry anyway - and part of me actually cringes internally a great deal at the thought of encountering freaky stuck up wannabe beat types who are stuck in some imaginary version of the lower east side from fifty years ago. And they'll be wearing berets, and duffle coats and reeking of ciggarettes, and be male wiht bad facial hair and worse teeth or female and fey and flat chested and I'll die a thousand deaths a thousand times over.

but tonight I faced a fear and did it anyway. My friend stacy came up from Tucson and we've been exploring the good, the lame and the ugly of the big apple - worms and all. the met was great, MOMA left us speechless, spanish Harlem was tops, bars in williamsburg made me swear off alcohol (they were too GOOD), the rockefeller centre and hordes of rug-rat clad tourists was totally ugly and scary and Little Italy was scary, or ugly, or maybe just lame.

This evening I sent stacy a text from the NYC public library - where I was sitting on the steps at 6pm -having been sent around the block and up the road (it being a tourist and touter packed 5th avenue) 3 times by seriously thick security guards - looking for basic info about how to get my ACCESS reading permit. Eventually I found a kind and well informed librarian who I could have kissed.

we agreed to meet in Union Square outside some great wholefoods emporium on 4th street. I hd a major craving for pho bo dac biet - so we went to chinatown (canal street subway) and battled more crowded footpaths before finding a $5 pho that was just a bit lite on the meat side - but was otherwise fine.

After being unsure whether to go to spaghetti fundraiser for alternative political theatre project or smutty burlesque club in brooklyn we headed up to washington square to check out former. It was in a converted church next to New york university. Something about the speghetti queue gave me flashbacks to Resistance dinners in sydney in the early '90's. maybe there were too many badly folksy knitted jumpers. Maybe this is the point where I have to cast out the logs of my own sartorial misfortunes. today I wore thick black wooolley tights - whose crotch kept sliding down my thighs. Over this I had a B&W stripey strethc cotton mini-dress/top thing. I topped this with very cheap plastic black moon boots and a cheap full length puffy polyester parker. I'm trying to look like I could *almost* be homeless, or mad or *almost* be cool but i'm not any of the above, just eccentric and anonymous. It suits the upside down state I feel. I'm not part of any tribe here yet - so the sore thumb stick-out look seems like a safe one.....

so back to the church - and the spaghetti queues. Stacy's friends form indymedia recognised us so we had a little chat and then I recognised Michael Taussig from the corner of my eyes and nearly wet myself (gushing girly swot that I am).I went up and gushed about something (ohh yeah - my research) and told him that I loved New York so much that I was on the lookout for a husband or a postdoc here. he smiled. It looked like it would be a good night.

but then the MC started with a bad powerpoint presentation and excessive enunciation and thespianically declaimed lines that gave me sneaking suspicion of rehearsal and collective scripting. I shuddered. I admit I'm the queen of bad performance but this was BAD. and full of 'in jokes' that people were laughing at in an ostentatious manner that made me feel embarrassed for them and embarrassed for me having to witness such tosh.

So this ended eventually and th first act: a 'rock opera', descended from above and swarmed among us, wearing costuems from New york's Reverse Garbage and clacking stones. This was cute - and could have been brilliant if thought through a little more..... I won't add suggestions - but err... less silly costumes, more rocks, more weird amplification, more orchestration? more merging between crowd and performance -its easily done!

so we went downstairs to the 'live painting' room - where a jazz band was doing post punk improvisation (think aural threshold exercises) and some guy was doing a rolf harris reenactment with rollers using red and black paint on ply. Ohhh shit. I hate it when people think that popping some person with a bit of paint in a room so punters can gawk at them going hell for leather with the drippy stuff gets labelled as some kind of improvisational interactive live performance. If painter pete is on planet painting and just doing their stuff doing the oblivious public solitude act - then it's not a performance. stacy liked the black kangaroo form with the red skyscrapers tho..... I wondered if he was sponsored by quantas.

So we ventured the audio tour - and that was simple - but pretty cool. a blind fold, headphones and a guide to lead us around the park. I found walking blind hard enough - but the audio scapes of different stories were INTIMATE AND COMPELLING (TM). Nice embedding into the bodily habitus there. Tres good.

so that was so nice that after a quick retour of the other pieces we decided to head off with a smile on our faces and try the Brooklyn burlesque. We got the subway to union street and then wandered up to 'union hall' - and found a imitation victorian gentleman's club filled with frat boys - it was like 'Porky's' meets 'the hours'. We descended to the cave in hope and coughed up cash and then saw bits of some skinny girls showing off their Victoria's Secret underwear, in front of a big crowd of yelling frat boys.Actually the girl strippers were OK, and the music was cool - but the crowd was really really ghastly. I realised how niaive and sheltered I must be beause when I think of Brulesque I automatically assume it'll be a queer, carnivalesque crowd - not a frigid raunch culture rip off. so Park slope is officially a scary place on a saturday night. we left soon after and got asked for cash by some guy in a hoodie. We offered him our fruit.

I'm having and intimate and entertaining NYE with close friends but thought Id try the poetry marathon on new years day - just coz its something I'd never do in sydney - and maybe it'll be cool (patti smith is on the bill). And if not - I can write long words about it and people reading it will think I'm cool just for doing even lame and dumb stuff in such a cool place. and it is cool. not cold. I'll do raptures later.

happy pig year

Kissing Frogs

It's 2am and i'm wired on coffee.

I should have had an antihistamine instead of a cafenoir at bedtime last night. My skin itches from summer, so do my eyes.

the air is dank, even though a soft wind blows. the skanky stench of Maryjane wafts in with distant noises of people's drunken weekend. these endless hot blank nights of stupidity and heat and darkness are what i'm running from. 12 days and counting.

I'm trying to write a paper and I can't. Feel too dumb. I am on the cusp of something.

I've had a horrible slow week of sleeping, sobbing useless gloom. It lifted yesterday.

Writing is a profoundly neurotic activity. as if i'm not neurotic enough!

My fingers itch, my twat smells. My arse feels solid and slow and sore.

there is some good news. I finally managed to screen the texts from psychobunny. so i've had some relief. thank dog.

there's been no sign of her person in the hood either. yet. Not that i've been out looking. I evne missed gurlesque last sunday. the commune had its AGM at the same time and I thoguht I'd better show some civic responsibility for a change.

whoretic's descriptionof the smallness of sapphic circles did send shivers of recognition into my entrails.

sydney is such a small world. And mostly a very safe one. or so it seemed.

anyway - the universe last week was guiding me towards retreat, solitdue and contemplation. whoretic's own museings on the possible sanity of non-coupling interactions resonated wiht the advice of another friend last weekend... she said she liked to a have a year of celibacy between relationships - rather than rushing into rebounds.a nice time to heal and focus on the self and grow.

Part of me thinks NYC will provide this - coz the rebound thing has been really full on. I don't know if this is the relationship I want or not.I've written and stated this repeatedly - sometimes even to the person concerned (I'm working on my passive aggression but it's a long road OK?)

Some one at uni is doing a thesis on the fairy tale myths and modern postfeminists (or whatever the girly version of metrosexual manginas are...)

and then zoo's posting from a week ago got me thinking.....

SOmetimes I think I'm kissing a frog hoping that it will turn into a prince. Or a princess. Sometimes I think I'm kissing a prince, hoping he'll turn into a princess. Sometimes I KNOW I'm kissing a bloody princess and wishing I had a prince. Or a frog. It doesn't help that my ex-princess is literally a frog (aussie slang for dem frenchies) and the frog slang for dyke; 'gouine' means toad. Charming. And i don't know, when I'm desperately desiring the consort - if I'm desring him, or Abel, or what I dreamt Able would be (and was, but idn't now) or what I wish the consort would be (but isn't). am i just infatuated with my own desire?


The consort (frog/princess) once said that all women want to be treated as princesses. Under such expectations, sometimes even I am reduced to the odd pouty sulk and flounce. but in general I'd say I'm more of a QUEEN. I have an ex who called me "Reina Margarita" and even my victorian appellation for the consort - has a stately regal tone. My tits are too big to be a princess. and my gut. and my opinions.


I'm not that crazy about eating frogs legs - but maybe I should have taken the frog/princess to the same frogleg serving restaurant as the last 'deciding factors'.

(this term is a sapphic euphemism for last bioboys bonked - and one that I use with tongue firmly in my cheek. I don't tend to see lesbianism as a reaction to the failings of men - but as an opening up towards the possibilities of women - stalkers aside.. it's a positive thing - well at least the desire is)

and i'm not sure if I'm entirely comfortable with the reverse scenario either. My confessions to other dykes about bonking a bioboy are usually met with 'ahh, don't worry darl, it happens' - and the stalker mentioned that 3 of her exes had turned straight (and now I fucking well see why.... cheezels christ!).

As embarrassing as it is - I actually enjoy the genitalia of said frog/princess. Not as much as ladybits - but certainly more than a dildo. (this may change once I hit the sex shops of NYC wiht my credit card!). My eyes water with desire in his presence, or even imagining it. My whole body shudders with delight at the lightest touch. i do melt into his arms, and in his mouth. Every milimetre of my flesh aches for his touch, inside and out. i haven't felt this physically attracted to anyone for a long, long time.

so what do I do? write this off as an abberation, a delirium induced by heartbreak and heterosexism? or wanking to to much gayboy porn? or girlboi porn?

After 10 years of preaching/writing/teaching open ended poststructuralist polymorphous openendedgenderism - i *still* find this stuff hard to deal with. as much as i can tell myself that the consort is a total girl, and a complete princess - and just has boy bits on the outside - it's another fairytale. One designed to smooth my own creeping back into some scary closet of inadequate role playing. Part of me hopes desperately that one day I won't be kissing a princess but some immense magical prince who'll take away all my worries about doing a phD, about being too fat, too poor, too weird, too grumpy to live any fairytale.and then i shudder' at myself, at him, at the situation.

I wonder how can I feel such immense, intense desire for someone I don't really love that much? - I mean, don't worship, don't idolise, don't feel is all that stimulating, good for my career, good for my sanity or my popularity levels?

(oh fuck i'm turning into paris hilton)

This desire doesn't feel reciprocated. so often the frog/princess falls short, and I fall flat on my face. furstrated, hurt, flumoxed. I sulk and cry in my corner - or go out and defiantly ignore the frog/princess - only to be summonsed and soothed instantly as soon as heshe gets an inclination to touch me.

Sometimes I think I'm a fucking idiot. And i want to run away and never come back.

I was going to write something interesting - and hopefully be fired up enough to work on a GREAT AESTHETIC MANIFESTO and hence conference paper - but obviously I am so shallow and vapid and hopeless and braindead that I'd better stop now.

I reckon sex is destroying my IQ. Or yoga is. Or this crazy new non-sugar non-dairy diet. I shat green turds the other day.

what type of girl?

I'd assumed that coz I heard nothing on wed night (dyke night at 3 pubs in Newtown) that I was safe - and maybe she'd left town after all.

hah!

no such luck.

thanks for your reply. but my life couldnt b any easyer than it already is honey.and feelings? Lets not go there.and im a very good listener.and few would say! what a good fuck.have a great holiday sweetie.x 23.11.06 @ 21.32

Brief not: I made no reply but asked a friend in the FRESIAN islands to text on my behalf. And the obvious reply is 'no: you are not a good listener, you're a fucking nut! Actually It's quite narcisstic of me putting that one up - wiht my sexual credentials broadcast for the world - hell a woman who wears her genitalia on her head can't be too bad I guess.


You know what? You'll never b like me sweetie. so don't use u as an exsample of who i am. as u dont even know me at all. sorry hon but I thought? U had more class than that?. 24/11/06 @ 00.50


I've gone through all the texts's you have sent me! And you know? all ive red. Is you do what you do when its only about sex.but. its obvious that u r hurting big time honey.and you cut off.all I wanted from u. Was 2 have sum great sex with u and 2 bring u a smile.2 b happy. what's wrong with that?x 24/11/06 @ 1.08

Well! what a bizarre delusional tautology the above missive is! Like - I wanted sex, and sex alone -she describes it like an accusation, does some pop psychology 101 ad then offers the same. why can't people be honest and say "all I wanted from U was to have an object of fantasy that i could manipulate, scare and control so we wouldn't have to engage in any sort of reciprocal relationship casual or otherwise. I reckon that call u my bitch and fuck you senseless gives me permisssion for all of the above" huh?


I found u a s a sensual lustful sexy women. and did'nt think 2 b so wrong about someone like u. I was so wrong. thanks 4 the time we had and 4 the awareness of girls like u.im a happy easy going kind of girl that works hard and love's life and people. theres no shit in my life 4 the moment. and thats how i like it. Thanks girl and say hi! If ever we cross paths.x 24/11/06 @1.39

Say hello? More like say 'fuck off you freak!"
so many cliche's, so much shit, so much delusion.

what type of girl did she think I was? the type who pashes someone on the dance floor and drags them home after fucking someone else in the toilets? (this is what I did and this is what I told her at the time) the type who repeatedly says ' I'm not girlfriend material. I have other lovers. i'm bisexual. I'm very busy. Let's just have some fun'? the type who assumes that if someone else says to my face "This is nice. It's just fun. that's OK" that that's what they actually mean? The type that assumes that a kiss is not a contract, a fuck is not a contract. that 2 fucks are not a contract, nor is 10.

i've only made 'contracts' with 2 people in my life. One was a joint lease and a hire purhcas eagreement for a TV. that was with my ancient Ex fomr the 1990's. the second included eveyr type of joint contract possible with Abel. Most of them are sitting under my bed. she's still in my will. (My property consists of a ton of books, a heavy computer and some paintings: combined value? $5000).

Abel left the country after being pissed for most of the weekend. a good chastiity belt - i had no temptations at all and assumed my libido had died wiht stress of psychobunny. Then I saw the consort. thought maybe I was straight and had been deluding myself for the past 12 years. then I saw the most sensible slut in the world. *melt* then I saw ... ooohh ahhh - don't have words for that other one. Oh gosh!

So I was planning to chase pretty girls or at least perve at them on sunday evening. hmmm - but psychobunny is making me think otherwise.

wonder if I should ring Newtown Police?

Last Night of Freedom!

After all the doom and gloom of hiding from a stalker with 70 essays to be marked - I'm going under cover and breaking out in Style.

this thursday the "it's a new day' residency at artspace - is gonna be a top night - and my mate Schappylle Scragg is gonna be there with bell's on - coz it's her hens night!

Go glam and get on down to ARTSPACE - at Cowper Wharf Road Woolloomooloo from 6pm on thursday. (opposite the pie cart and a few doors down form the servo).

Scragg has also produced her own version of the Cleo Bikini guide.check it out

You can see some pics of scragg at here

big thanks to the hilton - aka Ladonnarama

Pushing It

Hay Sweetie. Can i come 2 c u? or am pushing it with u? dont want 2 upset u either.please.x 18/11/06 @11.41.39

I called around 2 c u. but u wer'nt there. Well I guess manly is manly 4 u, thank you 4 your communication.and i ran into you ex she is a really nice girl. what's your problem girl? 18/11/06 @22.10

All the above is true. Drunken Abel and friends said that psycho bunny did turn up around the back of the COMMUNE looking for me, and they let her wander around the garden before she wandered off into the night.

Today I had visions of her climbing in through my bedroom and leaping on the consort and tearing off his delicious member. As I watched him doze, blissfully oblivious ot my paranoia I tried to Zenly imagine myself asking her to replace the flyscreen - instead of screaming and throwing the nearest object to hand at her head.

YUCK

so current courses of action:

1. ring the cops - get and AVO.

2. Ring her and scream enough threats so SHE gets an AVO against me.

3. Run around and graffittie lot sof toilet doors and street corners wiht warneings aoubt the psychobunny girl - so she's humiliated into going into hiding

4. try to stoicly ignore her

5. Get her texts blocked from my mobile

6. Hide out in CROYDON

7. Start a STALKING CAMPAIGN.

Frankly I'm tempted to do the latter!

If you are a supportive random reader - then send me a comment and I'll tell you how.

otherwise if you're a known friend - I'll be sending you an email soon with the mobile number of psycho bunny and asking you to call her - from a work phone, pubic telephone or unlisted/stolen/borrowed phone number - (or send a text).

make it as creepy/silly/agggro as you like.

i reckon she needs MORE contact - and is obviously lonely and bored - and I sure as hell don't want anything to do wiht her - so why not get my friends involved?

I reckon after 10 days of 20 random calls and SMS's -- she'll get the picture of how fucked her behaviour is!

Sweetie

today was so cold that IT WAS SNOWING IN STANTHORPE

for those of you unfamiliar with lands north of Chatswood - Stanthorpe is home to "the big apple". Its a hole of a town south of toowoomba but north of wallangarra in the darling downs/granite belt.

Apparently bondi was the coldest its been in 200 years - which put a bit of a dampener on buying slips of fabric for SCRAG. she's got her hens night reenactment next thursday. I think sh'es got enough outfits - but you never know.....

anway - I was trying out a size 8 singlet in insane flouro pink Engrish (for me, not scragg) and the phone rang (I HATE answering the phone in a changeroom) and then the text bell went off:

"Hay sweetie. Y wont u talk 2 me?do u hate me that much?im sorry if u feel that way about me.im only human and i have feelings2! Take care.xx" 16.11.06 @12.38

Sweetie is one of those misused epithets that even I like to misapply in SMSspace. Compliant coyness. Unctiousness.Ick

But who the fuck takes *me* for a 'sweetie'?

Pussycat maybe - but sweetie???? for fuck's sake my photo shows a CUNT ON My HEAD!

Sweetness is in the mouth of the beholder I ponder as a suck on another salmiaki.

Salmiaki are finnish licorice lollies - intensely flavoured wiht ammonia. they are an aquired taste.and kind of sweet.

I cnan't really write tonight and tonight I hate my life.

I've been sleeping 15 hours per day and sobbing for about 3. that leaves 6 hours - of which I spend about 2 in meals, anohter 2 in masturbatin or some random errand - and hey presto! no more time!

i've got shitloads of makring to finish, plus long overdue chapter and some paper to write in the next fortnight.

Oh - and My stomach has been FUCKING SORE, and I've got THRUSH FROM HELL, and yesterday in YOGA I was so plagued by PILES that I could barely stand up! Hobbling across the road afterwards - I had ridiculous visions of me being crushed by traffic and thought 'what a fucking stupid way to go. I private sick chuckle caught in my throat as I gasped in pain.

I think it was the shoulder stand that did it.

(that is such a typically tragic me sort of thing to happen - so bad and so funny I had to laugh - ouch).

today I sobbed on Abel's shoulder and tried to dump the consort. My firend in finland sent me a text saying she was heartbroken and my firend in NYC rang me to tell me the same.

so strangely, I'm not alone. It's a lacrymose season the world over.

miss understanding

today I got back from yoga to the delightful little missives below:

"Hay maggie! didnt go 2 the mines.just thought 2 let u know.You may not give a shit! After my smartass texts i gave u.but dontget me wrong. It was all a big miss understanding and sorry if it upset u.x @10.18am"

indeed!

Last fortnight, Katrina Fox's column is SX - had a great and funny piece about 'the standard' abusive txts from dykes to each other. MOstly along the lines of :"Hey bitch,I wanna fuck you with one of my 10 dildo's with other girls names on them" "why haven't you replied you stupid fuck? go fuck yourself then"....... and the Foxy Femme was laughing at how straight girls don't take shit from men - and make formal protests from far less abusvie texts.......

and I reckon straight girls have got a point. No one deserves to put up with annoying harrassing shit - from a man or a woman - and no-one should feel they have the right to dish it out.

I gues that's what motivated me to start publishing the texts from psychobunny up on my blog.

Because I find this shit totally unnacceptable, and outrageous, and assume other people do. And I don't think its a private matter - its a very public matter.

I assumed that by being NICE to someone on a one night stand - that would earn me some level of esteem and respect. But no!

so in future I'll try to drop a turd in bed or something.

well, maybe not.

and the niceness gets me worried to: the nice girl role sounds like the 'rape script' scenarios that I've hjust been teaching to the earnest undergrand sof Austrlaia's oldest university.

(Sharon Marcus's argument) - that rape happens because rapists start pushing limits, skirting along boundaries and taking the nice pollite ocmpliance role that women have and pushing it, and pushing it and pushing it. Meanwhile women 'go along' being nice, pollite, sweet. Acting available - not syaing 'fuck off you freak'....until things get out of control.ad then sometimes not even then.

Sigh

I think of my own histories - of coercion and nastiness. Even now I don't use the R word. Because there was no clothes tearing, no screams, no scratches. Because I didn't say no. Well not very loudly and only a few times. and not because I didn't say yes.

Ir emember bieng a small pubsecent mayhem. watching scary sixty mintes stories about "the horror of rape" (TM) and thinking 'yeah, it if happens to me, I'll play dead and pretend to go a long with it; so he won't notice".

I think I was 9 at the time?

I'm not denying that violent rape is horrible and violating and a thing that any right thinking woman should be terrified of.

But Isn't it any more horrifying having 9 year old girls writing little secret scripts for themselves - for how they'll comply, collapse and cope when the big bad monster comes to eat them up?

and of course - when a big bad monster did violate me a few years later..... I was sweet and silent and kind of confused and very very sad - but it took YEARS for me to let myself feel anger.

It didn't seem like the bad stories from TV. It wasn't violent, it wasn't a stranger, and I still had my hymen afterwards.


anywya - enough of sad scary stories.

Being socialised as female - living in fear becomes so habitual as to feel instinctive. the nocturnal key clutching, the nocturnal purda, staying home in a locked up house. Staying still, silent, sober and sensible. not taking risks. not drawing attention to oneself.

so its strange how when I've felt real fear - this time around - I've been strangely calm. splitting off and calmly typing out the tome.

but the rest of the time - when I'm not actively avoiding my feeling of being shit scared - I'm in a constant state of anxiety. Whingeing about the consort, fretting about Abel, and err... yeah. Avoiding my feelings of fear, distress, irritation and anger. That its happened again. That poeple trat me like shit. that poeple don't understand me. that as uch as I try to be nice and sweet and generous and clear, I still get pushed into corners, squeezed into shapes I don't fit into and not listened to when I protest.

Maybe its time to take up kickboxing.

Saga dribbles on......

I decided that "halloween horror" was a bit melodramatic for all those texts I kept receiving.

and I heard nothing for a week - unitl today, when rolling over from my sweet nocturnal slumbers at chez consort, I read this on my phone.

Message:

R u free 4 sum lovin. 11 Nov 2006 @2.25

My vagina twitched and spontaneously siezed up with thrush. Bloody hell. Lucky I've got 30 essays to mark

Halloween Horror Volume 10

today was a particular delight - and so persuaded me that such genius needs to be liberated from my phone and deserves to shared with the world. Psycho bunny has taken excerpts of my texts to her (dated from monday- which I've italisized and placed in inverted commas) and added her own comments (in bold)

Sunday 5th November 2006-11-05

"Wow! U mean the mines? Fucking hell!" @15.01

"I know u r real coz I can still taste u & I’ll never wash my sheets again!" @15.02

"Stop it or I’ll hav 2 mop the carpet! Am I dreaming or r u real? Xxx" i am real.x 15.04


"U’re butch enuff 4 me & u don’t need 2 pack 2 impress! Xxx" only a dildo a condom and lube will do 2 impress.? @15.10

"SPEWIN! If only u told me! I just got an email request 2 talk at some do @ hollywood pub on wed 8pm. Wanna come? We can cum after!" What? @15.11

"Not 2day coz if I c u I’ll drag u bak 2 bed! Thanx 4 last night & 2day & I can’t w8 4 wed! I feel like a dog on heat!" U know what they say about being on heat?I don’t sleep with dogs. U only get fleas.wed was that good. I cant remember it was that great!.i think I had some dog on heat fuck me around? @15.25

"A dildo mayb? Cool! Seriously I’m flat out till wed so if ur in town can we meet then? Please? 8-)" had u begging 4 more.got all 2much 4 u sweetie.u had me all wrong.when u thought I wanted more.don’t like being fucked around. @15.32

"I’m just a pathetic phd student with no life! Writing sux but I hav 2 keep trying & keep my mind off sexy women like u!" if only u had the time.and u have a life! But its your pathetic excuses that sux. @15.37

"Sorry I couldn’t call back.2day is crazy but I hope 2 chat L8r! xxx" we never did have that chat. Whats your excuse that time. No credit? @15.42


"Shagging the woman of my dreams! How abt u?" if only that was true.u’d b inheaven by now.u can just keep on dreaming baby while im gone.x @15.52

"I know u r real coz I can still taste u & I’ll never wash my sheets again!" This is what u ran away from. I was 2 real and u got a taste of that realness. That’s y u’ll never wash your sheets again cause u r afraid u’ll never have that again!I had no intentions 4 other than great sex with u.x @16.02

(after this one I was wondering if she'd read Lacan and was playing some stupid joke based on the Symbolic order.....)

"Wow! U mean the mines? Fucking hell!" That’s where im heading on Thursday.lets hope its not hell.was informed theres a sexy girl already there waiting 4 me.how cool.she cant wait.don’t know what it in 4? @16.19

Halloween Horror Volume 9

Saturday 4th November 2006

Do u want 2 fuck the women of your dreams. Then call me. U have my no.x @ 2.19

Halloween Horror Volume 8

After avoiding a number of non identified callers on my mobile and hiding from a knock on the door I thought I'd better get some advice. I asked people at uni what to do and someone suggested that I answer the phone and ask psychobunny to stop sending me messags and be polite but firm and state that I was no longer interested. so i did this at about 7pm - when I got home from uni and the phone rang. And she was polite and seemed to agree - but then rang two mre times before sending a final text..... for the day.

Friday 3rd November

Went 2 c the guy I had trouble with at the hospital. He 2 c the guy ihad trouble with at the hospital. He is fine he was one drug when all shite hit the fan with me.its all good. Dropped the charges. Phew.had 2 clear my name.it was all in defence.and he admitted it in front of the cops.im releaved.x @9.11

Hay sweetie.since u wont speak 2 me. Would it b asking 2 much if I can have your mailing address?xxx @10.59

Look babe im still here in Sydney. but like 2know whats going on with u.do u want 2 catch up 2night?xxx 15.54



U werea delight babe.the last text u will get from me.take care and wathcout at the flying fox.xx.a lot of trash go there.slyfox sux. 19.11

Halloween Horror Volume 7

I've included the last text I sent before running out of credit. Now you get the creepy picture.

Thursday 2nd November 2006

How u feel babe? @11.59

M: Better than last night. i'm trying to make up 4 lost time time & working. how about u? @12.03

Went 2 slyfox.big punch up with sum guys. Cops ambos what a fucking night. @12.08

Im getting the fuck out of Sydney. the cops want 2 charge me 4 assalting. When I was only defending myself.they r saying he’s in a bad way.it was him or me?it sure wasn’t going 2 b me.it was all fair he picked me! It happened so fast.what a fuck.didnt mean 2 hurt him that bad.he was hasselling me most the night.i only hit him when he tried 2 kiss me.and it was one hit he went down it was over.no im introuble.fuck it. @12.47

Im a lover. Not a fighter. @15.56

Whats this about? Is it u don’t want 2 talk 2 me? R u upset with what happened? Im not the type 2 b in any sort of violents by anymeans. Please u need 2 have a greater understanding of me. @19.50

U’ve got it all wrong about me.if u think 4 1 moment that im into that sort of crap.it just all went wrong when he grabed me I just reacted.it was unexspected. Please talk to me babe.x @20.42

Private no calling: 21:02, 21:07. 21:29,

Goodbye my lover goodbye my friend.you had been the one 4 me. Xxx @23:55

Bad Pussy!

Well, sometimes it can be damn hard to shake off the recovering catholicism.

I'm hoping that listening to a customised CD of kathellisism will do the trick - but yeah.....

OK in the catholic scheme of things - we are born to suffer, and jesus suffered for our sins, and if they hit you it hurts them more than it hurts you, and life is fundamentally tragic and you can't ever forget that, and people have it so much worse than us and never forget that however happy you might feel that you could lose it all in a minute and never forget that how sad you feel that someone has it so much worse, and so don't ever let yourself feel too happy or too sad, and don't think of yourself too much and don't think of yourself becaus eits selfish and you should always think of others, and pray for them.

and EVERY PLEASURE will be punished. you will suffer for your sins.

so what has this to do with mayhem? sitting typing late at night on a keyboard, working on her tome, working on her blog, planning more transgressive fun and random wild and crazy shit and having such a wild and crazy life and being so damn... COOL, and POPULAR, and having so much FUN?

well, Last weeks naughtiness - seems to have landed mayhem in a bit of hot water. That nice butch girl turns out to be a bit bloody intense.

ten texts per day kind of intense.

boasting about punch ups and then whining and groveling and making all kinds of WEIRD apologetic excuses - and dropping werid arsed disaster scenarios on me - "I'm leaving today! No i'm not! you've blown it! - i'll give you one last chance."

I went and hid at the consorts for 2 days with a bundle of marking and my tax return. Meanwhile she texted me salaciously describing naked sailing adventures on the harbour.

I had visions of a naked woman atop a 56 foot yacht saiing into delwood beach, and felt kind of aroused and kind of weird.

and the weird hot/cold psychodrama alternate reality monologue kind of reminds me of 'he that died not a moment too soon', my long deceased patermonster.

YUCK.

I was weepy and clingy and couldn't really explain why. fortunately consort can give me the pips but is really great when I'm messy (which is basically all those times when I'm not blogging about how fabbo my life is). He doesn't ask for explanations - just gives nice hugs and tender kisses and cooks good meals.

so after 2 days of pampering and soothing tenderness, I recrossed the harbour and collapsed with a migraine for 18 hours.


and migraines - those weird cerebral explosions can be pretty good for sorting out cobwebs and confusion. (tho its a pretty painful way to do it)

and I realised that the sapphic sex goddes is just a selfish psycho. Texting me till midnight ondering if she could breathe smokey boozy breath alll over me and fuck me as well.

(I guess she's never had a migraine - or she just has no clue).

so.

I'm doing my wallish act. Blankness . no responses. & my phone is switched off.

so, giiven such a messy complication - its easy to BLAME MYSELF.

You know? for taking risks. for fucking someone who hadn't fucked at least 3 of my friends.
for fucking a stranger, strangely


for being greedy and needy and trashy and enjoying being seduced and trashed and treated like trash and dominated and pushed around just a little....

for enjoying it.

but oh but.

Like TEDG says: a kiss is not a contract, and nor is a fuck.

and I was pretty clear the whole way through that "i'm not girlfirend material, I fuck around, and intend to keep doing so".

but psycho bunny doesn't appear to have ears.

so mayhem has retreated to assiduous work on the tome - only heading out with a masculine escort (hah! not quite) and hiding my phone.....

next time I have a random one nite stand - I go to their house - get their surname and address so if they turn psycho i can call the cops and get an AVO faster.....

Halloween Horror Volume 6

Here things started to feel quite odd.

The sympathetic response to my cancelling a date due to migraine was particularly impressive. (I've included my texts below). I really liked the baseball analogy (with my batting skills it was never really going to be great rhetorical device). That's when I decided it was over.

Wednesday 1st November 2006

Ive got 2 fly up 2 queensland don’t know what time I’ll b back.u know the plain that went down? I’ll b back in Sydney at about 8pm.friend has arranged it 4 me.Im tyring 2 get out of not going.. @ 11.14

Cool. @11.30

Ive been put on stndby about the job at the airport. I need to hang around so that means im not going 2 go up north jus yet.so I may c u at 8 at the hollywood.x @ 11.41

Hay sweetie.whats your plans after the holllywood speech? @12.43

Fuck! u r out of your mind. @14.02

Sorry babe. Your not out of your mind. Jus crazy 4 a girl like u.xxxx @14.43

M: I've got a migraine & period pain & im going 2 hide in a dark room till i'm ok. so sorry 2 do this 2 u! I shd b ok by fri but i'll b in contact. xxx @17.03

Hope u r feeling better sooner than Friday.take care and c u soon. Not 2 happy about it I must say. Is that the 3rd strike? @ 17.13

Hay how u feeling? R u ok? Do u need anything?is there anything I can do 4 u?please let me know when u get text.x @21.30

M: I'm ok thx 2 ear plugs, tiger balm & aspirin. I just got 2 rest & w8 till it stips. I also have 2 do a shitload of marking b4 fri! I'll dream of u till then.xxx @21.36

Well then.im no good 4 u.when your feelin like that? @21.44

Would u like it 4 me 2 ease your mind and sooth you body? @22.03

M: Stale tobacco wd make me vomit right now 1.11.06 @22.03

What? I wont smoke then!how fuctdo u feel babe? @ 22.08

Halloween Horror Volume 5

this day seemed reasonably normal.....

Tuesday 31st October 2006

Goodmorning sweetie. Im going sailing on my friends 65 foot yacht 2day.across 2 lady jane beach champain all the goodies. @7.47

Good luck! This is the life.stunning day 2 b havning sex. @10.07

Hay sweetie I hope u didn’t get me wrong. Im save it 4 u. @11.04

So horny tho. @11.06

Did u hear about the plan than went down thanleft the emerald mines? Going 2 gladstone. They think the 3 dead are miners. How fucking freaky. @22.43

Halloween Horror Volume 4

Monday 30.10.06

Am I meeting u at succulents? Cant remember if u said or not? X @10.12

No reply. I guess I was wrong? Been waiting till 11.30. C u wed. I rang 2 change job interview till 2morow at 11.30am 2 c u off I guess that was a wrong fuc up2. Have a great day.x @10.37

That could have been arranged. But u have other commitments and now u can only dream what could have been. Have fun.xthats another u miss out on.3 strikes and your out. @10.59

I’ll let u know. @11.07

Looks like im heading up north 2 night.just waiting 4 phone call. @12.10

Yes babe.isuppose I better start packing. @12.13

What? Jus wear my riggers belt and hard hat? Will that do? @12.18

Don’t 4 get the steel capped boots.and a few tools. What a goo look.and a sweet smile. @12.21

Im real. Didn’t ufeel I was real last nite? Maybe u r dreaming? U never know whats? Around the corner. Life is full of suprizes. Never take it 4 granted. @12.36

The taste will fade. Im not gone yet.as 4 the sheets.u should wash them as the next bitch will b confused. She’ll b fucking the sheets and u might miss out.ha @12.46

Still waiting 4 call. I’ll let u know soon. @12.47

Babe I call the shots.u don’t need 2 cancel 4 me. I can still go at the end of the week. Thatswhat ive arranged. Im waiting 4them 2 give me the OK.but there is a chance I may still have 2 go 2night. @12.59

Will u miss me? Im no great loss. U will get it on and u will 4 get all about me.and it maybe better than ever be 4 I came along. @13.04

You r amazeing babe.thanks 4 your kind nature. U r very real and I like that.go 4 what ever u want in this life now.don’t let anything or anyone deter u what u beleave in.let love show u the way. Love everhting good or bad.its all learning.its allgood.you know what I mean.?x @13.15

Jus got the call babe. @13.57

Cant stop thinking about my cock inside u baby. @16.03

I’ll stop it then. @17.04

Horse and Carriage

currently I'm completing my Tax return and shuddering at the 43 essays I'm meant to be marking.

However WENDESDAY NIGHT at the HOLLYWOOD HOTEL I'll be busting loose - for some fine chinwagging about sex, gender and sexuality and genitality and lots of other stuff.

It's all in aid of the JACKI PASCOE SALON EXPERIENCE - a residency of weekly perfomrance, music , dance and disocurse organised by local luminary Jacqueline Pascoe.

It'll be like the guest lectures I get paid to do - only I'm not being paid so there'sll be more booty and no powerpoint. ACTUALLY I MIGHT JUST DO A PERFOMRANCE BASED ON MY BLOG RANTS. I'm on a panel with a couple of trannydames and we'll be between two bands - so around 9ish.

the evening kicks off at 8pm - so I hope to see yers there. the hollywood is off commonwealth street in surry hills - ferget the name of the street - its on a corner..... ask some drunk.

Over the weekend Schappylle is doing her interpretation of a South Australian PINK MOLL at an art auction eco conscioussness raising exercise at Mori Gallery at 3pm on Saturday 4th November. Addie is 168 Day Street.


Got this orff a friend - it knd of amused me....

Halloween Horror volume 3

This was the day of our second encounter... ohh if only I hadn't left the confines of my little ivy covered scholarly seclusion!

Sunday 29.10.06

That’s the plan.ill text u where 2 meet soon. Im driving at the moment @13.40

Hi sweetie. Where 2 meet? How about u come down 2 the newtwon hotel 4 one drink then we go and eat? Can u do that? @15.29

Cool. @15.33

I cant c u. im near pool table cum over. @18.43

Halloween Horror Volume 2

this was 2 days after our first encounter. I'd left another encounter up in the air - but swapped phone numbers - I was interested in meeting up but unsure when, but she was kinda persuasive.....

Saturday 28.10.06

Im so horny & u. R u up 4 it? @2.03

Sweet dreams babe. Im out of line sorry.but cant stop thinking about how sweet u tasted. I can still taste u in my mouth.x @2.16

Shame. I could have helped u get your rocks off.licked up your lush sweet pussy and kept u wanting 4 more.x @10.38

I’ll b picking up my tools over the weekend. Jus 4 u. and I hope u will need some adjusting after all the work u r doing? Cant wait 2 c u again.your taste is always on my mouth.and u r on my mind constantly.xxx;-) @11.28

About Sunday night. I would love 2 take u for dinner. I changed my plans as i would rather b sitting across from u enjoying your company and a good feast.xhow about u? x @12.27

8pm is fine.anywhere u like and what ever u desire or would like me 2 choose? As long as its fresh and good im there.let me know baby x. @14.31

Ok sweetie. U r holding me in despence. Thatscool. I’ll just have 2 wait. Is your day going well? @14.48

Suburban Mayhem

There is some good news.

I think I've found my sexual identity: a trashy femme called Sylvie. All thanks to cheap black wigs from the $2.00 shop and cheap black micro mini's from the $5 scragg shop, and cheap pink breasts from… err.., well the tit goddess, I guess. I've had them for about 25 years……. they don't cost very much at all. a bit of pain now and then. decent Bras. TLC & touch wood.

As the trashy femme, I feel like one of the Bronte sisters, being urged into a mask by their Papa " If you put htis on, you can be whoever you like, say whatever you like, it's not you, it's the mask".

so mayhem went out and was totally trashy on wednesday. Dancing like the whore of babylon, feeling up girls on the dance floor, following butches into toilet cubicles. getting other butches to follow me home. My mother would not be impressed with this at all.

Isn't lesbianism meant to be some sad, reclusive reflective decent thing, done between decent malephobic deeply in love sensitive beings who have no other choice than to seek refuge in a feminine caress?

Aren't lesbians lesbians only in couples and just sad spinsters while waiting for the perfect girl?

Can't we be cured by the perfect senstive non threatening man?

Aren't those piggies in the sky so damn pretty?

Last week, feeling mangofied, lusty, happy, energetic, I SMS'd my favourite femme icon of the month and posted a link to her blog. (see regal bits).

Like zoo (Milky and Ouchy) I too admire her eloquent posting on romance - and wish my browser wasn't so spastic that I can't stick up a link rightaway.......

All this midnight oil burning while the consort slept. He'd retreated into some world of pain/exhaustion/goodexcusefornotfuckingmeapprentlybut tryexplainingthattomycuntcozIain'tseenherearshaveyou?

feeling sexually deprived I naturally thought of the infinite sweetness of breastmik washed down by black bitter beer. Of the smoky succulent residue of ladylips lingering through more beers. Desire burned into me, and lay smouldering all week.

I wanked. a lot.

couldn't write. Wanted to sob. did sob. missed Abel. Listened to too much music. Wanted more. My head started throbbing. I had to get out. I took my migraine to yoga, and gently breathed. Realised that I had to get out. and move.

I had to go out and shake my bits, move like I was fucking and being fucked, and maybe even be fucked - but even just going through the motions lets off some thing.


my vagina, strange phallophillic and deaf creature that she is - is a marvelous dance instructor. (even more, I dare say, than the consort - though no-one's paid $80 an hour for her lessons).

she of course, leads. she leads me, she moves and moves me where and when and how she wants to go. Ever other limb, every other muscle follows her.

this explains the beatific smile on my face when I dance. It's like fucking nothing.

and I delightedly got led home by some incredible crinkle eyed butch, wiht a husky voice and eyes like the ocean, and hands like GOD (if a decent once exists) and Jesus - there's a whole world of women I need to sleep with because I think i've been missing out up to this point.


and I realised what I like in a man was being taken in the way that I want a woman to take me. hard, strong. No doubts. that self assurance.......

dykes don't ever ask if you've come or not.

when I told the consort he sobbed a lot but said it wasn't about me, and I'm still stupidly hoping for some sex from him, and meanwhile the saphhic sex god has been texting me every hour, and my twat throbs and I need to wank, and it's REALLY HARD to write.

the downside of the saphic sex god is that she is a chain smoker. and she doesn't drink coffee. She rang me one morning before I'd had mine. she didn't try again. I don't form words before coffee. (All the more Kudos to the consort for being the same way). I'm also scared she wants another girlfriend, she's talking about not moving interstate after all and has already tkaen her sex toys out of storage (ohhh lucky me!). i'm scared to tell her I've been bonking a man.

I wandered donwstairs and sought the advice of TEDG - whose a bit of a postgender sex god after her talk on thursday.

I asked her if I should maybe solve my problems by telling these inadequate, confusing and demanding people that I've FALLEN IN LOVE WITH ABEL AND WE'RE BACK TOGETHER.

those nice bonk/play buddies wouldn't have to be told - coz they don't make any demands. Just proffer bits of flesh, soothing caresses and naughtiness in between meals, coffees, conversations, mangoes..... which is all I want to do with anyone right now.

No fucking demands, no fucking expectations, no fucking dramas, no fucking posession.
Just lots of angst free, smoke free, game free fucking.

TEDG tried to persuade me that I shouldn't make up stories about Abel coz they might come true and that I probably do have the skills to actually ask for my needs to be met, directly from the intimates concerned.

but times like these I wish life could be like one of those ads for working dogs in the "the Land" newspaper.

Bailing, binding half-bull bitch. No time wasters.

Halloween Horror volume 1

Question: how do you tell if someone is a psycho stalker freak?
at what point do you make the call?
what do you do?
who do you blame?

What seemed like a fairly innocent two night stand - somehow over the halloween seemd to turn a bit odd. Lucky we're no longer in the 1980's - coz no doubt we would have gone to the Reclaim the Night march together or something and it would all be horribly ickily ironic.......

Friday 27.10.06

R u serious. @23.25

Maybe its time 2 play. @23.39

I have something on. @23.44

Cool. @23.51

First Mango of the Summer

My friend Jarnot (now snowbound in Sweden)

insisted that at the start of the summer you had to indulge in THE GREAT MANGO RITUAL.

This involves sitting near a tempting body of transparent sparkling water - wearing a sarong or some diaphanous raiment, and eating a mango - a whole one - with your bare hands.

Juice must drippel down forearms.
Pulp must end up on face and other bits of exposed flesh (especially thighs - tempting company to lick them clean).

You must scrape the pip with your teeth and use up a whole box of dental floss extracting the fibres from your interstices.

Having sucked the marrow, and being covered with the scent and pulp of delicious fruit - you then shed the diaphanous raiment and dive - or plunge (ideally naked) into the tempting body of transparent sparkling water .

Rinse the mango, rinse winter, rinse cares,. Float. Enjoy saline supported pneumatic mammaries.... be glad that summer is here.

Last sunday I did just that. Well almost.

I grabbed an overpriced mango from the consort's kitchen and strode purposefully down to Fairlight pool. Well - even though it's just been renovated with a new kiddy proof fence (yep - round a rockpool - what a bloody joke) and covered with breeders and spawn - I sat, in my raiment (Well a hat, and a frock) and dove into the mango with my bare hands and spread the juice inside and out.

coz it was mid october and peak melanoma paranoia season - I maintained my raiment of lycra rash shirt and bikini bottoms - and plunged in anyway.

Saw the ferry cross past south head, and sighed. Watched the sunset as another mango in the sky and sighed again.

I dragged another mango to uni to split with my supervisor on some hot humid lunchtime encounter. OK the main quad ain't quite a harbourside pool - but the mango was cool.

sinney can be great at times.

this week - the mango has gotten inside me. Maybe it was the splurging on seven golden orbs at PAddies that did it (average price: $1.20 per unit - yay!!). Better than bananas. (but god I miss bananas).

So today - I feel gravid with life, like I'm bursting at the sams with joy and delight.

I feel myself frighteningly fertile. Horny as hell, willing to be split in two from the inside. To suckle, to sing, to screw, to spew forth sproglets.

fuck fertility is frightening.

I got used to the clucking and sniffing around babies, the cooing bovinely at pregnant or nascently babified women. But this is weird. I'm stronger than I've ever been phsyically. Fit, energetic, calm..... Full of life, growing emerging. Life pulses within me and wants to extend forth into mini me's...... Maybe this explains the poledancing/hose beast tendencies. Bloody ovaries!

fucking hell.

I cross my legs, scowl and think pious thoughts about the tome.

Strangeways Here We Come.

It’s 2.30am and I could be calling my friend in texas. I’ve got a phone card. I’m writng this – not even live online but pre-typing in word. My dialup account has expired, so I’m stuck typing into the closed dark circuits of my e-mac. This may encourage me to use spellcheck before posting.

Each day I discover a new limitation of a large white box. I bought 3 depressing moochy CD’s yesterday but they won’t play on my poota. I’m not sure if I want to here the neighbours hearing me play THE SMITHS on the stereo downstairs– so…. Yeah, err, I’m not sure what to do.

Right now I’m listening to the greatest breakup CD in the history of the universe. It’s from Abel – and full of our froggy faves: “Je suis Conne!” by Bridgette fontaine (I’m not sure if I can translate all the nuances of this crazy tune – ‘conne’ is dumbcunt – and more a part of the common parlance of those feministically challenged frogs than C**T is for anglophones).

She also put on Anais’s crazy acapella parodies of every pop genre imaginable, and then a CD of another acapella onomatopoeia queen: Camille. That’s what I’m listening to 50 times a day. Partly coz it’s easier to split my brain between 2 languages, and coz of lyrics like these:

je t’aime toujours
je t’aime toujours
je t’aime toujours
ton amour, je sais
je t’aime toujours
les saisons passé

(if you need translation: I love you always, your love I know, I love you always, the seasons pass)

It then goes into a bit of a duet thing which I can’t discern and then there’s the weird interpretive libretto segue as my audio and translation skills both segue into random association…

Mais qui est cette homme avec des yeux? (but who is this man with the eyes)
(or is it ‘Mais qui est cette ombre desous?’) (But who is this shadow beneath)
Mais qui est cette homme, qui tombe amoureuse? (but who is this man who falls in love)

Yeah, right. I’m, full of shit and I digress. The song is called Pale September. It’s now October. My heart is so heavy, sodden, grey. My eyes drag down with tears and my chest drags.

I feel slow, remote, pathetic, exhausted, incapable of anything, removed, apathetic.

I’ve gone back into breakup mode and I don’t know who it’s for or what for or why. Abel has moved out (at last) and the consort appears to be drifting away – or I’m pushing him away, or something. It is a relief.

I feel like a sad pale marshmallow sitting inside some large thick walls. The walls are my own making and I’m not sad to have put them up – but turning away from the world, means facing myself, and at the moment it’s painful.

My heart, aches. It feels like period pain. Oh, you know, just an ache, sitting quietly and occasionally catching my breathe, strangling me with its intensity. But it’s not horrible or horrifying, just averagely awful. And awfully familiar.

There is no rational or decent reason why I should feel this way. My life is fucking fabulous haven’t you heard? I’ve just returned from a wonderful class reunion, having spent the weekend surrounded by people who love me, and who I love. Before that I had a delightful night out with some lovely ladies and I’ve been having a 3 month rebound affair with a caring ubermench. I’ve got an amazing work teaching really interesting courses, I’ve got stimulating and supportive colleagues, Sydney uni feels like home and I’ve got an amazing flatmate (TEDG) moving in on the weekend.

Good girls are always grateful

But I’m a fucked up bitch, neurotic, greedy, needy, demanding, malcontent.

And a week alone in a 3 bedroom house is a damn fine reason to wallow. So I dragged my heavy heart up the street and bought a copy of my favourite first breakup album (it was an ex’s flatmates so I never actually owned it). Doncha love morrissey?

Stop me, stop me
Stop me if you think that you’ve heard this one before
Nothing’s changed
I still love you
I still love you
But only sightly
Less than I used to.

I got inspired to admit to my smith's predilictions by the eloquent postings on "skirts are bleeding". (click on the link called 'ouchy bits'). she updates far more regulalry than moi - and with stunning eloquence:

This bit below pretty much sums up my state of mind at present:

"Some days I (almost) wish that I could just be that straight girl, you know, the pretty one who isn't going to call anyone's identity into question, who isn't going to run about being a lactating faggot and packing under her tutu, who will stand by her man as the perfect reassurance and confirmation of his masculinity. Who doesn't disrupt the equilibrium or make anyone think twice. I feel like such a mutant and hybrid monster, always wanting odd combinations of menu items instead of taking the set banquet:

I want the boy, but don't want to be the girl
I don't want to be a girl, but don't want to be a boy
I want the house together, but don't want to 'shack up'
I want my PhD, but don't want to be an academic
I want to have a baby, but don't want the nuclear family
I want a committed relationship, but don't want to be 'married'
And on it goes."


Well, hell I wihs I could be a confused mutant lactating faggot instead of a confused mutant bleeding snotty scragg - but no-one's perfect.

I've had hideous head pain, back pain, stomach pain this week. That nice reassuring punch in the nose type migraine that makes every other stress kind of pale into comparison, well I can handle that, but the screeching agonies of small sounds distance perfume wafting - makes it a bit hard for me to be around humanity.(teahcing undergrads was a barrel of laughs this week). I've also been blessed with the scary skewer in the back twisting hardness, catching my breathe as I attmept to walk. and have clamly booked in a shiatsu for this afternoon. Avoiding codeine. trying to strethc, relax, calm down, cope.

but the gut wrenching shaking abdominal agony.... yeah well, that kind of sucks a bit. I was gasping shaking grasping for the slippery elm yesterday, grabbing and gobbling bits of bread, barely able to speak. TEDG thought I was just needing a coffee, and the houseguest barely seemed to notice as he gave a detailed whinge about his insomnia. Insomnia? Easily solved - turn on the light, grab a book, meditate, draw, wank, write. It's inconvenient, but OK - compared to shuddering pain - the sort of thing which sleep should be a respite from..... eugh.

On things prickly, Able has a got a copy of Salo - which we are going to watch before she heads off to frogville and her girlfriend (who'm I'm no longer allowed to call SLUT) for the next 3 months.

nausteating sado maso seems like a good adieu to this hellbitch separation year.

and copraphagia.

I feel like I've been swallowing shit all year.

Last night we went to a concert of our neighbours, at a cafe up the road. The cafe, with various neighbours and familiar tag alongs, singing, strumming, saxing and blowing horns - with various other neighbours tucking in and cheering - felt like HOME. Abel and I sat across from each other "drawing in stereo" as one neighbour put it. stoic scribbles to the kathellissism heartbreak songs bouncing aroud the room....

Last night reminded me of the scene in "the singing detective" of the old singalongs during ww2. Everyone joins in - everyone knows each other - the ocmmunity is an extended network of friendss, aquaintances, exes. HEartbreak washes around the room - songs written for more familiar faces and sung for others.

no wonder I've got such a provincial view of culture (it's the stuff that ordinary people make and share with other ordinary people). the last time I heard the Kathellisism experience was at Succulent - where i'd dragged mum and the consort to hear my brother's ex 'sit in' and play double bass. In 2 months time I'll be able to hear her sit in on lots of other gigs - in New york - only they'll all be famous people (Kath introduced her as woody allens bass player coz that's her 'regular' gig).

But silly me, I blithely assume -that it'll be like here - muso's making music for each other, for their friends - as something to share and play with and make life meaningful - not some abstracted out-there brilliance that only the cognoscetti get to connossiership of.

I guess I'm in for a shock. Sydney is such a small town -and I live in such a safe, insular little part of it. I only go to places - concerts, clubs, galleries etc. where I know the organisers or friends do and I reckon I'll know most of the crowd - not because I'm 'cool' - but because I can't deal with the out of placeness of rocking up to some abstracted uberzone of 'culture' (TM) where the only reference point is a review in 3D world or realtime.

anyway - I was nestled on the couch trying to disguise my pervings on the gaggle of burches opposite, under earnest scribbles as Kath stood on the table and yowled sonorously....

"You don't a lover,
you just need
someone
to love you....."

and I saw the consort standing edgily at the bar, and wondered if she was singing the lyrics for him.

*sigh*

I'm not even sure if I can be bothered finding the words for my dissapointment, anymore.

*sigh*

I've written Kath's lyrics before in this blog, so I don't need to write them again. I only had a few tears in my eyes when she sang them again. I even allowed myself a few longing glimpses at Abel's torso, and I quickly scribbled a cartoon of her in a corner of a drawing.....

The wounds have covered over - They aren't as red raw and gaping like 6 or 3 months ago, and I can even look at my research notes from 6 and 9 months ago -where each page of earnest note taking is interspersed with pages of scrawled tear sodden agony.

No wonder this chapter has taken all fucking year.

And as much as I can sigh with relief and feel thankful that I'm not so hurt, that time has healed that Kath's great advice:

"Just move on, keep walking. walk away and don't look back, just keep your life moving forward because it's like some big hole that's going to swallow you up if you let it. but if you keep moving, in six months time, you'll look back and you'll be six months away from this place where you are now, and it'll be better..."

is so true it feels like a miracle.......

fuck this hurts. I still love Abel. My 'ideal relationship' is still inextricably linked to her, to us and our life together. Still. Noone else comes close.

Getting out of my Navel

God my problems are so damn trivial.

I've been reading Salam Pax and listening to the Smiths to get some perspective on my PMT (Premenstrual Thesis) gloom.

but then I got this in my email inbox


Here's the text version if the images are indecipherable

On the *14th of October, 10.30 am, at Sydney Town Hall,* Friends of
Lebanon-Australia along with other community groups has organised a
*public memorial for the Lebanese who have died in the recent war*.

In the weeks following the war it became clear that many Lebanese
Australian families have lost friends and relatives and were privately
in mourning. We felt it important that this mourning be public as well.
We were also keen that such a public event does not become a 'Lebanese
community event' but an Australian event where as many non-Lebanese as
possible can come to join the Lebanese in their mourning. This is why
the event is held at Sydney Town Hall.

Muslim Lebanese Australians have been on the receiving end of a lot of
negative stereotyping, prejudiced ill-feelings and discriminatory
behaviour from various sections of our society for far too long. It is
time for those of us who disagree with this this state of affairs to
not only be critical with those who peddle racism and prejudice, but to
take the more positive step of embracing the victims and showing them that
we regard them fully and unconditionally as part of our Australian
community. Joining them in their mourning is an important way of doing
so. Integration is not only about migrants adopting our values. It is
also about us learning to share their sorrow and pain.

We wish this event to be focused on a politics of inclusion within an
Australian context rather than on the Middle Eastern politics that
clearly underlies it. This is a unique opportunity, for those of us who
wish to do so, to assert an inclusive politics of friendhip in the face
of the incessant politics of hatred and division that is becoming part
of our everyday lives.

We urge you to join us in solidarity and to do your best to circulate
this invitation.

Ghassan Hage
For Friends of Lebanon, Australia.

Bad Pashin

this is getting banal
Actually I'm so tired and grumpy I can barely write an SMS, let alone a blog entry, let alone a thesis.

SIGH

so i'm posting the latest pics with my new dressup buddy. i'm the one without the teeth. this was taken by the fairy fraggle a few wee hours before we dragged each other off with an enigmatic catwoman for fun femmy frolics at dawn. i'll leave the compromising pics to readers imagination.

I wanna be a porn star.......

My life is like a dream sometimes - I've found the best dress-up buddy in the universe.....

We went out trash bagging at Kooky - and I tried to pick up a girl but forgot how - and the only girl I got any where near said "You're cute, but I don't do zombies...."

Check out the pics behind Zombie Slut and Cave Girl!

Bumfluff

These images of Schappylle's tribute to Brandon Teena come courtesy of Rapunzel in Suburbia. big thanx to Les, Emma and Bifusion crew.









Abel has finally got her own back and has her own blog

too bad if yer can't read frog - you'll just have to settle for my version of events

Abel also sent some pics of Schappylle Scragg and the dogwoman at bifusion.









I showed Abel's DVD of Scragg's hen's night performance to the consort. He covered his eyes, groaned and said "you didn't tell me it was a Waltz!". I'm afraid I've inspired him to give up on Dancing Lessons. 6 years of Ballet and I'm still unco as hell.

Cheese Single

this posting is dedicated to Kegroll - infamous sister of the now mountied TXQ - who just sent me a eulogy about that corcodile wrestiing dude all the way from maple syrup land.....

Actually this posting has nothing to do with Keg - except that i've stolen her vinyl spinning moniker of Cheese Single. Together Keg and texta are known as the cheese sisters - coz they are the world's biggest connosieurs of cheese - I mean the cultural variety coz they are vegans. Texta got me into trashy DVD's when I was really depressed a few years ago, and the two of them are into cheesy clothes, cheesy mock cheese, cheesy vinyl.

which brings me to the lyrics of the phill collins song that haunted me last month

you know I love you but I just can't take this
you know I love but (aaarrrm i've got cold feet?)
you know I mean it but I just can't take this (maybe?)
something something but I'm in too deep?

OK I never claimed to be anything but shit at karaoke - and I always liked the blood curdling schmaltz of that little tinny synth riff that follows anyway - and hell -if you want decent well referenced reactive readings of trash culture go look at bloody antippopper!

so. ahem
the subject at hand

my department (cultural studies) now has a new blog: "thinking culture."

naturally I'm wayyyy too scared to post on it.
partly coz i've got 3 or for blogs already running.
Partly coz i'm scared my supervisor will see how much writing I'm NOT doing on my thesis
Partly coz I feel nauseous thinking about any of my students reading aobut my sex-life.

(am I such a puritan for regarding the tutor/student relationship as akin to parenthood - neither of you should ever have to imagine or witness either of you having sex - or are sydney uni undergrads just extremely sexually repellent?)

but I would like to be able to share some of my teaching/life experiences coz they are fun at the moment.

i'm teaching 2 subects: one is sex violence and transgression and it's so much fun (reading Bataille, foucault and even bloody zizeck and sharing the love with eager young fee paying minds) I'd even do it for free. (hope brendon nelson never reads this)

the other one is also great: a cutlure studies 101 - which is hard to get the students to take seriously and rise above the anecdotal -thogutb I'm starting to make some progress. Structuring the tutes into debates seems to really work with the bright children of sandstone: I guess they are aussies and love a competition and if you can convince them it's like a footy match they'll even engage in a bit of collegial intellectual endeavour.

(fuck.... do I really enjoy teaching after all?)

anyway this week we were doing de Certeau - and Ideally I wouldn' have liked to have taken them on a trip down vaneigem street - but.... I don't think they'd notice or care.....

so- in an attempt to get the minions motivated this week I brought in a packet of CHEESE SINGLES (generic brand) and got em to do a semiotic & ethnographic and political analysis according to a debate on whether the cheese singles were emblematic of modern australian life.

the first class (a whole room of NON-SKIP sydney uni arts students - shock horror!) really got into it. the second a bit less so - a few of them opened up the plastic and made faces or ate the cheese.

Anway - it's weird living out your fantasy writing/theoreising subjects vicariously in a tutorial.

coz I've been wandering around blabbing to people for the past month that the Cheese single is the ultimate emblem of atavisitic skippydom. that you can't comprehend the skip until you can comprehend the cheese single. So it's suitably ironic that the coffee coloured kegroll claims cheese single as her moniker. (In Australia Keg and texta constantly get asked "where do you come from?" and they say "perth", and people keep asking them about their origins instead of just being blunt and barking "why are you brown?").

Abel (who 6 moths after we broke up, and after spending our 8th anniversary and 5th wedding anniversary under this roof is FINALLY moving out_ was feeling disconsolate about sinney siders the other week, so I tried to console her with a little analogy. taking De Gaulle's comment that you can't rule a country wiht 200 types of cheese - I took cheese as the ultimate meotnymn for naitonal spirit; so the yanks chuck their cheese in a spray can (translates a a bombe in french) and aussies divide theirs up into individually wrapped hermetic portions; precalculated, prefabricated, hermetic, artificialy pale coloured, flavourless, insulated, contained, concealed, artificial, plastic. I told her, "skips like to calculate their food, and control how much goes to whom, we have to label our food on our kitchen shelves, we have to argue about the milk, and split the bill after yum cha, and bring our own drinks to parties; we can't help it!"

Of course, this analogy -though providing cofomrt and amusement to abel is pretty limited given the amount of the global populatin that is lactose intolerant or doesn't have a lot of cloven hooofed sucklable mammals. so I'm glad I confined it to the tutes.

now. back to the never ending soap opera of my life.

as the pressure has mounted over the past few months - i've taken up more and more forms of natural self help and self care. I must be gettig old - of maybe more desperate - cooz I've had almost no urge to drown myself in either chocolate, guinness or scotch. Actually - probably since I spent the previous 2 years doing just that - and consequently feeling like shit - this is probably whiy I've left the alcholism & overeating behind.

anwya everyone tells me I look fabulous

yee fucking harr

My thesis is still a slow trudging debacle, my social life is minimal, I'm not making any art, I'm not getting enough sex, and I've spent this week wracked by hell stomach pains, nausea and diaorrhoea.

anyway -this may have been the result of the last self help pitch - a nice celebration of my household resolution (yes - both flatmates are moving out this month - anna has a room at No.11, and coco is moving into no.10) I dragged a relatively hermetically fleshed fairy fraggle out to the korean ginseng baths on monday night. (finding a window period between the last piercing and the next suspension was not easy).

I'd aquired a blistering thong burn (from my footwear not my g-string) over the summery weekend so was hopeing this wouldn't disallow me from soaking in the spa..... but maybe I should have demurred.

the baths were great - we scrubbed and soaked and sauna'ed for 3 hours and I felt like a soft down pillow afterwards (i felt that I was one) or the centre of a marshamallow.

I floated home and floated into bed and slept the sleep of the just.

until 4am.

woke with throbbing migraine.

bastard head. took aspririn.

then the nausea started.

I slept on and off and swooned and sighed and wondered if it was a migraine or poisoning or a flu.

tried to meditate and fell over.

felt so shitful that I thoguht i'd watch old videos of Abel getting undressed and dressing up as a drag king. Only felt slightly worse.

then I felt horribly cold, and sore all over.

started curnching codeine and working out how to arrange my tutorial for the afternoon.

found some stomach pills. Bussed into uni. taught, somehow.

i'd had a noice night planned: meeting The Estimable Doctor Germs and taking in an art opening before being joined by the consort for dinner and a night of danicng to a 17 piece mambo orchestra.

After teaching I headed for the quad and met The Estimable Doctor Germs (henceforth referred to as TEDG) and she accompanied me on a slow crawl home via a friendly pharmacy, and the consort came around and prepared them both dinner and wine while I swilled aspirin & miso soup & tried to convince TEDG to move in.

Aspirin, codeine and whatever I got from the chemist worked and I can't resist mambo so I (god my mum would disapprove) joined the posse out to the basement..

I sipped tonic water and danced a little bit and broke out in a sweat and tried to draw but failed. fuck.

also met the ex of the consort. This was an experience not unlike an endoscopy I had 2 years ago, except that I was more tranquilized during the endoscopy and can't remember much of it and Abel was holding my hand anyway.


How to find reason in things that are unreasonable - like emotions? the consort has met my ex (because she wouldn't move out and then kept coming popping in - and still does) and I tell him about the few other fleeting flirty things I have (wiht all the time I have they are tragically minimal). we're not monogamous, and freshly emerging from the last marriage there's no way I want to try that nasty little experiment... well - at least before I'm 40 or gravid with child or something. so how to explain my feelings of... jealousy is it? He told me he would introduce me as his 'friend'. so I told myself I'd pretend he was a girl and we were in a suburban nightclub. be in the closet. Fuck. i didn't tell him anything. just something nasty hardened within me, and I can't see it thawing for a long while yet.

The consort is obsessed with his ex. When he's not exorting me with buddhist aphorisms about being in the present moment, he's exorting me with tormented tears about hi ex, who seems nice enough, but isn't actually his lover. I am. Well, not right at this moment. but I am in his presence, when he talks about her, buys her drinks and not me, fantasizes about her, takes me to their favourite restaurants, tries to include me in their little old routines and habits. Like him, I'm also in love with my ex, i've also wept on his shoulder and cried in his arms about abel, and god, of course I still long for her. but not when I'm with him. Or anyone else. Call me the immanence queen but I find sex delightfully and deliriously about the present moment, the present person, the present flesh, touch, taste, smell. So I've started calling myself the placebo in my diary, and whingeing a lot to my counsellor, and to my friends, and even to him. This is good, he's not comparing me to her as often. (Can you believe i'd put up with this shit? yes! I'm fucking tragic!) Of course i don't measure up. not skinny enough, not feminine enough, not frigid enough, not a good enough dancer, not as good in bed - I don't come enough, I don't come at all actually and no fucking wonder. Vaginas are intelligent things, really. Mine begs and begs and begs and wants a vast amount of attention and refuses to perform any acts of instant reassuring satisfaction before... well ......

god. sorry to bore whoever is reading this with all with this excessive bodily detail.

a rebound thing seemed so simple and safe and straighforward. Both of us non committal because we're both recovering from and in love with other poeple. both of us so extrmely different that the relationship has a shelf life infinitely shorter than that of a cheese single anyway. Him being a man is a nice safety net coz I'm still queer - still dreaming of the perfect woman to sail into my life and sweep me off my feet... but then, confusion still strikes.

i've got a new habiit of looking at my vulva in the mirror each morning - not as some trippy 2nd wave feminist self love exercise - but because I'm completely perplexed. she's completely infatuated with the consort. Leaps and sequeezes and oozes at the sound of his voice on the phone. Drags me over to his place, similing , simpering in the hope of contact. Generally I have a great deal of respect for an implicit faith in my vagina, and the life affirming and self preserving tendencies of her desires and whims. (It took 4 years of somatic psychotherapy to reach this point). but this has got me really perplexed and confused.

Because - cavorting with the consort is hideously inadequate. Sex occurs once a week, for an hour at most. This is decent and rational because I've got a thesis to write and a damn busy life and I shouldn't complain and it's exquisitely pleasant however occasional and I don't have to act on all my desires, and I can still just enjoy my sexuality wihtout being fucked senseless every waking minute and maybe I am a sex addict after all, and maybe this is all just utter shit. I'm 35, in realsonalbe good health, attractive, intelligent and passionate. I'm in my sexual prime! of course I should be be fucking myself senseless every fucking minute plus anyone within grabbing range!

Readers will be relieved and slightly bored probably to read that straightness is not of course a matter of gender, or genitalia. It's a state of mind. Most of the men I've slept with in the past, were, if not queer, then certainly quite eccentric and not afraid of themselves or other men, or kinky sex, or stupid sex, or mess, ambiguity, confusion, ineptness. the consort comes from a different planet - one with too many no-go areas, too many rules, boundaries, appearances, norms. If I come from the land of messy raclette, bad moulding philly, goopy 5 cheese lasagna, vache qui rit, cheese sticks, cheese singles, cheese cream, cumquoiatte, scary smelly munsters, dumpster diving mouldy chevre, and gorgonzola icecream, he's definitely from - if not cheese single land, then the pre packed pre prepared david jones food hall approved gourmet portions. He's the ONLY man I've ever slept with who hasn't tried to impress me with some bravado boast or feat of nascent bisexuality! (Oh, actually there was this bank teller in the early 90's. He'd been in the army and was pretty fucking homophobic, but he was HUGE, and I was drunk and we only fucked twice before the impossibliity of conversation killed any further encounter - and I think I had a girl return to port anyway)

I'm not sure if the cheese analogy works actually. I don't really eat a lot of cheese. Too much cheese gives me migraines and i've got a big fat gallstone, and I only kee the cheese singles in the fridge in order to scare Abel. I like to tink of myself as a rabelaisian gourmande - of sex, life and love - but i'm pretty ambivalent, scared and confused about most things. I don't know if blabbing about it online helps or hinders my slow muddling through life. Am I really here?

I'm meant to come up with an act for BIFUSION next sunday at 3pm - and I reckon it's time to seriously purge some shit (I seem to be doing that physcially at the moment anyway)

I thought of dressing up as scrag and doing a version of:

"I spent my last ten dollars
on birth control,
and beer
My life was so much simpler when
I was sober
and queer
but the love of a strong hairy man
has turned my head I fear
and made me spend
my last ten bucks
on birth control,
and beer"

but it's probably innappropriate for a performance about celebrating bisexuality.

so I reckon i'll do a scraing scragg version of a great Mambo track instead:

Un poquito de ton amore
Un poquito nada mas
Una sonrisa de tes labios
tanto querer me feliz"

not only coz I got it on mp3, but the lyrics refer to my scraggling scraping inadequate unrequited desperate existence at the moment.

"A tiny little bit of your love
a tiny bit, nothing more
Just one smile from your lips
Is plenty to make me happy"

Bull fucking shit

viva la fromage!

Hell in a pink tracksuit

you know things are bad when you're sitting in a pdust pink trasckwuit wiht Phil COllins going throgh your head.

the above scenario is so ghastly that I have to write it as an abstract conjecture.

I've Had an exquisitely shitty couple of days, that have borught me to a new low ebb.

Last week I had to give a lecture on homophobic violence - performing as the respectable face of queerdom when I'm not feeling very queer at all......

more like queasy

but I managed

managed with the binarised bloody text we had which thank god some student managed to critique as bi-phobic.

Dealt wiht the abjecting sneers of homophobic students staring at me in tutes, and I'm thinking 'god if only you knew'

Then raced through the next days teaching, did yoga, came home exhausted.

Fought with Abel, and then got collected by the consort - for a week's escape, along with ditheringly assembled chattels.

Somehow did my best, fighting fury and panic to work on a scrappy paper for a departmental presentation. I wanted to try out a different chapter strucutre, and tyr out a different ficto cirticla rant that I kind of liked.

well - despite crunching away on it for a day and a night and morning, no, well it floppped really.

shit

I was so tired on friday I could have wept.

consort aand i went tout to some concert - great music, really amazing - then I collapse on his couch befor ebeing coaxed to bed.

saturday was exquisite.

apart from crying, all morning, even during meditation.

Sunday I also cried during meditation. Can't remember what else - oh yeah, wlaking adn swimming wiht a firend, rnning madly to meet the ocnsort ofr an eevning yoga class, hihc left my limbs aching, but kind of limber.

Monday - no meditation, just sobbing, crying crying crying, doing half the manly to spit walk, while tyring to read a Barthes book for the purpsoses of teahcing, book reviewing this week. Crying ad writing mad long love letters to the consort. Met wiht another manly firned, wlkaed, chatted deeply and distractedly.

Left flowers, words and tears at the consorts flat and trudged home wiht some chattels. Exhausted I collapsed.

inside all is hell, outside it's all sweetness and light.

Abel kind of sort of has a possibility of staying in another offiically vacant house in the coop - whihc the incumbent former tenant refuses to surrender tho - so he's squatting there and won't hand over the keys.

so she's crahsing a tthe neighbours, trying to avid me, and I'm here, tyring to make my little next into a safe sweet studious shell.

the coop where I live is a fucking joke. Larz von Triers crossed with Solzenitzen.

Im back there this week. because I need to work, to thingk, to prepare. because it's the only home I've got until next march.

because I'm going overseas in 4 months so don't want to move house beofre.

becaus eI don't want to be anyone's wife. I need my space, my stuff, my centre.

home is a place to dream.

even though I've got insomnia - I can get up, move aorund, sit up and write till dawn like tonight. i'm on my own time here.

I feel like the wheels are falling off the cart.

i'm not coping, fucking up uni, fucking up the thesis, letting things slide.

Feel like i've bitten off more than I can chew with the consort, feel overwhelmed, scared, pressured.
also delighted, trusting, soothed, aroused, healed.

it's too easy for me to collapse in his arms, to run away and hide in his home, to play at someone, somehting new. but it doesn't stop the pain, the hardness the reality of my lonely effort at living and working here.

so I'm retreating from the shit that bugs me, from the coop, from other stuff, fun stuff, gratuitously hanging out with the consort, wasting time because we can. I'm retreating from Abel, because nothing I can do or say will change anything.

trying to eat more salad, keep walking, reading, planning, meditating.

Living on a Prayer

You know it's a bad week when you find yourself reading George Bataille's "eroticism" as a self help book.

BOOM BOOM!!!

Welcome to the whacky world of mayhem.

I had to read some of his dry cailloisey stuff so as to teach it to the youn'uns on tuesday..... Talking about praying mantises and deaht and seduciton as linked and weird proliferating nature of sexual versus asexual reproduction......

and then the next little bit on the structure of desire and transgression within marriages and orgies. Nice solid vintage colege du sociologie stuff. Nowhere near as weird as that egg and urine story. Sex, violence & transgression all in a palatable sandstone format. so I got bored and turned to my nice english copy of the accursed share - to bask in nice pages, nice gratuious words....

And the bit about 'the object of desire' twinning absolute collapse, repugnance, fear of collapse, delight in surrender etc. etc. all made complete heartbreaking sense.......

Let me tell you a little story.

I spent last Sunday morning sitting I on a couch in a suburban medical centre, having waited for an hour in the hope of seeing a bulk billing medico. Beside me, sat the olive toting consort, trying to be supportive, responsive, responsible and proffering me more buttery sicilan olives in the hope of comforting me. On the next couch, some mullet headed forty something surfie masticated loudly on jellybeans. I needed comfort. It was the 8th anniversary of meeting Abel, and last night a condom burst. I ran to bathroom, tried to rinse vagina over sink, cut and inserted a wedge of lemon (homegirls guide to kitchen cupboard spermicides 101). Woke frantically in the night and realised that my periods were already a week late. Sobbed for an hour. OK less, but it felt like an hour. I felt like tess of the D'urbervilles. I sat cursing myself, cursing him, cursing my stupid hosebeast of a libido.

Is (it) fucking worth it? an hour of pole dancing once a week, stripped and sauntering between clean sheets after dinner, after a week of distracted longing, trying to be good, trying to work on the tome, reading theory, reading books, mediating, swimming, walking, eating sensibly, voiding abel, avoiding ambiguity. a nice reward for a nice girl. And now this. Sex should not be about life or death but it is.

So back to the couch, in the burbs, surrounded by trancksuit clad, four wheel driving Breeders and their mcDonals fed spawn. enough to make me want to jam a coathanger up my cervix forthwith. Hormones however, have other ideas. I find myself involunterily clucking at babies. bloody hell. I scowl and bury my nose in the Bataille.

A song comes over the radio......

Oooh, we're half way theeeey-errr
Woooo oooh!!
Livin on a prayer!!!
Just one chance
We'll make it I swayyyerrr
Woooo oooh!!
Livin on a prayer!!!

wayyy cool! I can't help chuckling. I smile at the consort. he's not my age, doesn't know the reference, prefers classical music anyway. I explain how my whole year 12 sat on the stage at the shcool hall, drily mouthing the words as the song was blared out during our farewell concert - half the class runing offstage in relays, spewing ornage passion pop into buckets. The rest stoicly soldiering on beneath bad mullet perms and badder sunnies. It was my first day without a hymen. ho ho heterosexuality is such a stupid thing really.......

Back to the books. He's reading the 'passion as a path' section of a self help book that I also adore. Yep, even better than my perennial favrourite "It's called a breakup because it's broken". He hasn't reached the bit that made me cry, just yet. Or maybe he has. that the feeling of death, of dying, is part of the change that accompanies any relationship. that the feeling that somehting has died between a couple - is a sign that they can let go of old habits and open themselves up to something new. (why dind't I read that 6 months ago? then I'd still be wiht Abel, instead of well, still wiht Abel?). That there is a profoudn linke between llove and death; that to experience love, you need to embrace death and that to die, you need to embrace love. Or words to that effect.

so to Bataille. Sex, death, trasngression. I'm meant to teach it to the earnest twenty somethings at sandstone city. Dear old George, trying to be alll earnest and marxist - delinieating his honest account of subjective eroticism form an 'objective reality' of the science of how animals, cells, plants split and divide. it's the mingling of earnest assiduous quasi scienctific proclamations wiht the painfully intense honesty that makes me falll in love with Bataille each time.


bascially he's tyring to intellecutally juxtaspose two dillemmas: what happens to the original cell when it divides in tow? does it die? where does it do? and 'why do I feel so empty after great sex?'

hell what a legend!

check this:

"It seems to me that the totaity of what is the universe swallows me (physically), and if it swallows me, or since it swallows me, I can't distinguish yself from it; nothing remains, except this or that, which are less meangingful than nothing. In a sense it is unbearable and I seem to be dying. It is at this cost, no doubt, that I am no longer myself, but an infinity in which am lost....

No doubt this is not entirely true; in fact, on the contrary, never have I been closer to the one who... but it's like an aspiration followed by an expiration: suddenly the intensity of her desire, which destroys her, terrifies me; she succumbs to it, and then, as if she were returning form the underworld, I find her again, I embrace her....

This too is quite strange,: she is no longer the one who prepared meals, washed herself, or bought small articles.She is vast, she is distant like that darkness in which she has trouble breathing, and she is so truly the vastness of the universe in her cries, her silences are so truly the emptiness of death, that I embrace her inasmuch as anguish and fever throw me into a place of death, which is the absence of bounds to the universe. but between her and me there is a kind of appeasement which, denoting rebellion and apathy at the same time, eliiminates the distance that serparated us from each other, and the one that separated us both from the unverse....."

(the accursed share vols 2&3, translated by Robert Hurley, published by ZOne Books NYC 1991, p116)


I found the above paragraph the most enlightening thing about straight male sexuality, since the bit in "sex tips for boys" about morning erections not actually being an invitation to sex.


so now I know, that not only are men less likely to want sex first thing in the morning than women (in my experience) and that they are betrayed by their genitals (women aren't - an open wet throbbbing vagina usually means one thing, or two or three or four or five....) , and THAT THEY FIND INFINITY AND COLLAPSE INTO THE MORASS OF DESIRE TERRIFYING.

whereas I find it quite delightful.

I took the consort to Liz Grosz the other night to hear her deliciously expound on deleuzian becoming, creativity, music and animality. He was blissed out as I was. "See!" I tried to explain "grosz's view of life an endless becoming, a line of flight, outward from the self, an infinity of molecular possibilities, it comes from her experience of being a dyke. Lesbian desire IS INFINITE. It's not a nice refrain coded by society and taken after dinner - it's constant, endless, impossible!"

i'm not sure if he understood and I'm not sure why I felt I had to share it with him. I sitll don't know what I'm doing, gobbling morsels of staightsvilles, while i'm mired in my own immense desire.....

oh yes, now I know. My desire, my life, my wife. here at home, in the next room.

You want infinite and endless? bloody hell, we've been broken up for nearly 6 months and she still hasn't moved out, still eats all my food, still offers me hers (which i decline, doesn't she GET IT?), still offers me cuddles and conversations which I accept and return, and we sit sobbing for bloody hours and hours.....

fortunately she wears a chastity belt of beer breath most nights or i'd be racing in and ravishing her as well. and then doing her washing, and hey ho its back into the marriage we go. she still loves SLUT, still wants me as her wife.

so I sit here and try to read or meditate, or type like now, when I can't sleep at night. Go to the consort for sleep, meals, fruit and vegetables, decent coffee, conversation, cock, cuddles, comfort. Retreat into chez consort when I can't stand it any more, when I'm scared i'll run in and start clawing at her clothes. He visits here sometimes, for chaste cups of tea. We kiss in his car, plot sex in random places, or wait for his place.

Actually, this is all so unbelievable fucked I don't actually have any words any more to describe it. I am at my wits end, I don't know what to do, I'm annoyed and powerless and too tired to even panic anymore.

I haven't sobbed for 2 days, but will probably resume tear flooding in the next day or two. I write, I walk, I mediddate, I do yoga, I see a counsellor, I get massage, I try to read, try to teach, try to write, try to even do my thesis sometimes.

Try to be a nice girl, a good friend, a good lover, a good teacher, a good student, a good art reviewer, a decent person. Try to breathe.

there's a certain level of freedom in a state of complete powerlessness. while calmly and coolly planning classes, travel, completing timesheets, payslips, articles, whatever, inside I'm quite happily anticipating my own death. I'll just keep on trucking on, and if I drive myself into an early grave - well that can't be helped either, can it?

It's not a morbid fatalism. Just a bewildered sense of the impossibility of my life at the moment.