Pity Party Favors

I grew up to the sound of rumbling. Thunder, car engines, growling in the backs of throats. I grew up in deserts and plains. Backyards filled with sand and patchy grass, scraped knees and dying trees, that when I look back at objectively now weren’t half as gnarled as I remember them being. They weren’t the fingers of withered fairy tale witches hands reaching to pull at hair and the edges of my clothes as I imagined.

A lot of people glorify their childhoods, remember things much nicer than they actually were. I tend to go in the opposite direction. Maybe its just always been my resting mentality to be slightly melancholic, maybe I’m just a pessimist delighting in being let down once again by myself. A pity party thats actually a party. Grayscale streamers and glass glitter parades of ‘I Was Right’.

Its comfortable though. I can’t deny that. I’ve become used to this non-stop disappointment that seems to be me.

I was prompted today by the writings of Montaigne to do a closer introspection on myself again. I haven’t done one in a while, well I have, but they’ve been more moments in time rather than a whole overview of who I perceive myself to be at 22.

If I count it out in pros and cons, like a panel of deeds, accomplishments, and possessions I come out okay. I have a place to sleep, University is going well, I have two Cert IV’s tucked beneath my belt and a solid work history, plus a reliable source of mediocre income. Internally I always feel lacking. I feel shame constantly.

It seems everything I do, every decision I make, every action I take or do not take, I find a reason for why I am not good enough. They are always good solid reasons. I am ashamed of what I do and who I am. Do you know how constantly exhausting it is to always trying to be better? To always be looking for a better way, to work smarter not harder, to be better and stronger and more beautiful than the day before. To just feel better? I spend hours at night contemplating everything I’ve done wrong and come up with scenarios that tomorrow, tomorrow I shall enact and receive a different outcome. They say that a symptom of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and thinking you will get a different outcome. I think the reason people fall into insanity is doing things different over and over again and still receiving the same outcome. Groundhog day as a perpetual state of emotional being. I want to scratch out the eyes of people who give suggestions and opinions. I’ve been there, done that, nothing you can and could ever do could even begin to encompass the paths I’ve attempted. But then again I’ve never been the most persistent of people. If I had to introduce myself as character I would say this:

She had medium length brown hair, noticeably lighter at the tips from a time too lazy to dye back from previous bleaching. Thin, bitten fingers dig sharply into a tobacco pouch feeling for the last bits at the end of a pay week, trembling slightly if you look close enough, feel fast enough, before she straightens out and laughs. It doesn’t reach her eyes. Her hands move when she talks, slight jerks and starts before gracefully falling into a rhythm that mesmerises you for a second, only a second. She talks like the world won’t catch up, like if she says the words fast enough they won’t mean anything. The feeling encompasses her whole being, hopefully she won’t mean anything, you won’t mean anything at the end of the day and she expects to be forgotten, she expects to be the last one standing and the last one remembered. Too loud and too brash to be entirely truthful, yet solemnly spoken as if these will be the last words she will ever speak. They might be.

This isn’t what I expected. I shall try again.

You Stopped The Noise

This is my favourite song. This is the song I love to. The song that can perfectly explain in explicit detail how exactly I feel. We all have our songs.

Summertime by My Chemical Romance came out in 2010 and I got it about a year or two after it was released along with the rest of the album. It is fantastic album. This song to initially struck me so hard I cried. The opening lines of ‘When the lights go out, will you take me with you?’ and the resonating last line of the chorus, ‘You can run away with me, any time you want,’. Those are things I’ve always believed in. Always felt in my heart. If you love someone enough, in any way, you want them to be happy with you, you’d go anywhere, do anything. No matter what I’ve seen in my parents, friends, family members, somehow I’ve managed to keep my all or nothing mentality about love and relationships. I’m not going to just give up, and I don’t expect them to either. I’m in this for the long haul, even if you aren’t.

Changing tenses and unspoken words, I see in my minds eye that girl with brick in hand, scraped up knees and lip gloss mouth smiling at me. The battler in my minds eye who reaches out with outstretched palms telling me it’s not going to be okay, but I wont be alone. That I don’t need my distractions, tv sets, movies and headphones, because I’m not alone. There’s people who love me in my life who will drown out all the noise and pain. They won’t leave me. They won’t walk away.

Still. I think what keeps me coming back to this song is that heart felt plea. That pleading, soulful line, of ‘Don’t walk away, cause if you stay I would even wait all night, or until my heart explodes,’. Because I would, and I know how it feels to be left waiting, wanting to give everything to the person who might go, who might stay. You’d give them everything either way.

To quote another song from this album.

‘You only hear the music when your heart begins to break,’

 

Prose: Conflicted

Feeling conflicted.

I seem to be only be posting bad things lately, like my life isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. It’s frustrating when I understand inside myself that I use this particular medium as a purge of emotion, but a lot of people I don’t see a lot read this to know how I’m going in everyday life. They look at this and see me breaking down, They look at this and see only pain, and hurt, which isn’t the majority of what my life is. I could make this more of a micro-blogging experience, snapchats of my day and funny photographs of myself and my friends, laughing smiling, having fun like 22 year olds do. But that’s my facebook.

This isn’t a place for the awkward banalities that consume 50% of my life, but for the other 50% which is made up of my fears, and hopes, and what angers me to the core. This isn’t supposed to be a nice comforting place, not for me, not for anyone really unless you can find solace in the fact that you are not alone in what you feel.

I’m sometimes frustrated that people think my public media is supposed to be meaningful, that it needs to have some point to it. I’m not here to entertain, I am here to express myself in a readily available recorded outpouring of emotion. I do think about what I write before I post it, I am not being purposefully malicious when I write what I do. With that in mind please understand that I’m not trying to make anything of this, I write like this to help myself. To consolidate and put in order my feelings and what makes me feel. A lot of the time, before I began writing, I’d find myself at a loss in conversation, circling around and boxing myself into corners because I couldn’t readily articulate what I actually meant or felt. This is what this blog is for. Like a kind of speech plan for life. I’m not good at speaking contrary to popular opinion, usually I leave feeling like an idiot and hurt myself later for what I’ve said in the spur of the moment. So I’ve made a conscious decision never to feel like that again, I want to walk into a room looking and feeling like a queen and two months later be able to defend my rhetoric with exactly the same fervor as I originally did. I will not be talked down to about my own emotions and experiences, I will leave no room, no hole for anything but thoughtful examination. I will not let myself down yet again.

To fully understand what I mean, I must confess that I rarely read through what I have posted in the past. I take each paragraph, each written piece as it comes to me, much the same as the way I write. It’s thoughtful, and considered but I am not afraid of repeating myself if it’s something I feel needs repeating. It pains me to read what I have written before, and usually I will only do so in some pit of despair or creative dead end, trying to prompt myself into movement if only to shift off the bed of needles I create for myself.

You do not choose to write because it is something comfortable. You do it because of the demon driving you forward, chasing after inspiration with a baseball bat in the dark.

I took an online test today, admittedly I have taken it before and wanted to see how my writing style maybe had changed. It takes a couple of paragraphs of your work and afterward spits out an author that you write like. Both times I have received H. P. Lovecraft. Not sure if this means I haven’t progressed, or just that I have avery distinctive writing voice. Either way, I’m as happy as I was back then with the result. Slightly relieved, but concerned that I am alienating like 70% of the planet with my winding prose and unnecessary punctuation.

Hypocritical Hypocrisy

I wonder if I’ll ever stop writing about being in love. Maybe that’s just who I am, the non-believer forever astonished by the proof of existence.

Human beings’ in a mob What’s a mob to a king? What’s a king to a god? What’s a god to a non-believer.

Kanye and Jay-Z may not be for everyone, but that line still haunts me. Sometimes lyrics can be so witty and well written that they change the very fabric of what it means to be you.

I dont think I’ll ever be good enough at anything to be able to preach. To look down on the masses and subject them to my particular brand of irreverent sermon. I’m not sure I’d want to. Some part of me feels maybe I could, that I would do well as a public speaker delivering truth upon the ignorant and informing the public. Then again I’m very fond of drinking my own koolaid as the saying goes, and I’m already insufferable as it is. I’m a writer, I don’t listen. I never listen. I’m so far inside my own world I forget others have their own experiences. So even when I do listen to some anecdote, or story about your day or from your childhood, I don’t really listen. I don’t take it at face value and end there with some, later to be categorized, piece of information about you I previously didn’t know. I rationalise, I debate, I criss-cross inside my own mind all the angles and layers of meaning behind the words you speak, and not to deepen my understanding of your mind, but to undermine. I dont even realise I’m doing it. I dont see you. I see words. I see experiences that I make my own. You are but a vessel for my own selfish extrapolation and expansion of usable source material for my own work. I dont listen. Not like I should. Not like I could.

And I could. I could do so much better but I dont. I’ve been struggling internally since I decided to embrace my inner challenge to be a writer, the pros and cons of being so selfish in my own existence. I think part of any creative career requires you to have some form of narcissism, something that drives you forward every time you are pushed back by critics. There needs to be an internal fountain of ‘Fuck You’ running through your veins that says you are better than they think you are. Coinciding with this, I also put a high value on humility. I can’t put enough emphasis on how refreshing and wonderful it is to be able to talk with people who can converse with a sense courtesy in its purest – politeness of heart, and gentleness of spirit. How can these two things be embodied in the same person. The hypocrisy of it bites into my core.

I need to remember that hypocrisy of the soul is something humanity does very well.

Two opposing points of view can get along quite well in many, so why not I?

Sandpaper Feelings

We all have our limits, the place we will never understand, the places we will never be able to go. As I learn more, I begin to find more of them. Not unlike being stuck inside an artificial womb, the elasticated sides bend around my reaching limbs, but it snaps back when I overreach. It does not break and I turn back. It’s frustrating enough to make me laugh. Or cry. If I have a choice, I will always choose levity over willful self destruction.

I didn’t feel very good last week. There was a part of me that kind of forgot who I was. Nothing too severe, but it still numbed the bits of me that matter, just the edges. Sandpaper feelings shaving off the bits that stuck out. A bonsai tree of emotional growth, new buds being clipped off to strengthen the core. I like to kid myself into thinking that fast-forwarding relationships to the end means that I am making a responsible decision about my forever-in-question mental health. I like to think that I can make life cerebral enough to rationalise a downsizing relationships. That by distancing myself from everyone I am making who I am a better person to be around. Sometimes, I can even justify it enough that I think I have high standards. That I’m not just being an abrasive and cruel introvert, but heightening my already existing relationships to a god-like level.

I feel like I’m just regurgitating the same old, tired bullshit I have before. A broken record made of half written songs and terrible poetry.

Maybe thats just who I am. Maybe I can never escape the desolate landscape of my own psyche. Stuck on loop within an introspective cycle of self-immolation and masochistic tendencies. An angry girl-child with no purpose and no goal. My own selfish philosophy already dictates that I will never change anything forever.

I do not have a point, just a point of view.

Crimea: Top Holiday Destinations For A Nuclear Winter

This was originally written for a zine I was doing with a friend, but that is currently postponed due to work commitments on her part, and Uni on mine. So I decided since this is quite a time sensitive piece, I’d post it here instead.

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Nuclear winter is a hypothesized scenario where the worlds atmosphere, after being involved in a nuclear fucktruck of back and forth, becomes so saturated with the ashes of your dead family and friends that it literally blocks out the sun. This particular apocalyptic scientific scenario, ends with us entering an early ice age. Except in this reality, there’s more chance of you being eaten alive by a mutant carp, than cute prehistoric animals carrying your kids to safety.

Judging from Russias track record of almost starting WW3 several times before (1955 Norway, USA 2013, etc) I’m gonna go ahead and assume that the catastrophic events leading to our life as we know it coming to an end, are nigh.

This doesn’t mean you have to cancel your highly anticipated family holiday though! I’ve gone to the trouble of researching the top spots you can take your family to in relative safety. Assuming you aren’t all dead, and none of these locations receive a direct hit from the 16,700 plus combined U.S/Russian nuclear arsenal.

So lets take a look at where you can go to escape the banality of knife fighting your neighbours for sealed cans of beans, and vegemite jar scrapings.

Ittoqqortoormiit, Greenland

Primarily a hunting/fishing village off the Eastern tip of Greenland, this antiquated, and isolated, destination has barely 500 residents. Not dependant on fossil fuels for food, and with dog sledding as its primary form of transport, Ittoqqortoormitt is perfect for those who feel a little outdoorsy action would break up the monotony of everyday scavenger life.

TRAVEL TIP: Make sure you check out the archeological sites of this treasure trove of Inuit culture. Who knows, you may learn how to make use of all those corpses in the streets, and upsell them into some trendy post-apoc fashion.

 

Tristan de Cunha, Somewhere In The Atlantic Ocean

A tiny set of islands, first discovered by the Portuguese in 1506, this idealistic archipelago is an absolute must for those looking for a laid back escape. Part of the British Commonwealth, it boasts a humble 264+ residents, making it the most isolated inhabited archipelago in the world.

TRAVEL TIPS: Keep an eye out for the remains of Britains WWII secret navy bases and make sure to plan around the highly volatile cyclone season. If you’re still alive, also check out the total lunar eclipse that will pass over in 2048.

 

Puncak Jaya, Indonesia

Ah, the quintessential Bali holiday you may think, but alas, no. These inhospitable mountain ranges, although part of the beautiful and welcoming Indonesian archipelago, are anything but the free alcohol and rampant bouts of salmonella poisoning you are used to. Though it’s not all bad news. Home to the largest gold mine in the world and the third largest copper mine, if you play it cool, you could end up on the other side of this clusterfuck a hell of a lot richer than you started out.

TRAVEL TIP: Although canary’s may be hard to find in your current climate, children under the age of 4 are also good indicators of carbon monoxide levels and dangerous toxic gas leaks.

 

Perth, Western Australia

We all knew it would end up here. Despite being the bane of most Australians existence, excluding the unmentionable that is Tasmania, this untouched treasure trove may be the only place you city loving holiday travelers can go. The most isolated capital in the world, with heavy reserves of oil, gas, uranium and an smorgasbord of food industry giants, Perth is the new New York of the post apocalyptic wasteland that is your life.

TRAVEL TIP: Being incredibly out of touch with everything, this thriving metropolis will most likely still be running as per usual, even after the fall of its Western and Eastern giant counterparts. Over run with mad tradies and naive trapped tourists, there’s a reason Mad Max and Tank Girl were set in WA.

A Cyborg Romance

It occurred to me today that I share my life in thirds. One part myself, one part my partner, one part computer. The cyborg tri-fecta in relationships.

Even in sleep, my bed is cut into sections ranging from body to body to machine. I cannot escape the finality and coldness of being shoved to the edge of a mattress to make room for something that does not rest, does not sleep, but plays endlessly into the night only to ask at some abysmal hour if we are still watching, still waiting, for it to continue. Doubtlessly, at some point where elbow meets softness or freezing limb meets warmth it will be resumed. An endless playlist from consciousness to death.

I share my life in thirds.