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
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.
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
to love you....."
and I saw the consort standing edgily at the bar, and wondered if she was singing the lyrics for him.
I'm not even sure if I can be bothered finding the words for my dissapointment, anymore.
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.
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