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Friday, 30 September 2011

Wrinkles are the best prose

Gold: When something bad happens you have three choices.  You can either let it define you, let it destroy you, or you can let it strengthen you.  

Read this, and thought it was beautiful.  Typically I'll counteract it with something morbid of my own, which from years of observation, I know is depressing, but true. Taking Madame Tilly for a trot around the block today I stopped in some bush behind a playground looking out over all the houses that littered the valley.  Those cement boxes were so separate from each other, so anti-social and isolating.  You wouldn't think real life thinking and breathing people lived in their own separate worlds and dramas inside each house.  We're all too alone when we face our issues.  Looking at houses I never think twice, I always imagine them as empty shells, but they physically ground the lives of people.  They establish reality.  When I look at my house I attach thoughts and emotions to it - it becomes more than I pile of bricks or wood.  Maybe nursinghomes are the same - people look at them and don't think twice about the occupants.  The old should be flaunted and highly respected in society, rather than hidden away and fed mince and custard and re-runs of M*A*S*H, until they finally die, receiving, at the most, three visits a year.  One for their birthday.  One for mothers or fathers day.  And one for Christmas.  Like sitting in a prison cell and being given rations.  8 years in 3 different nursing homes.. I don't think it's an exaggeration.
I could go on a self righteous rant about how everyone is too self consumed, wound up in dead-end soul numbing careers, complicated marriages driven by self absorption, dole bludging miscreant children, hedonistic overly-indulgent lifestyles...but what would it solve?  It would be a lie to say I hate looking at an excess of my own words, it would be less of a lie and more correct to say it would only make me feel high and mighty.  But what use is an illusion?
What use is a chick preaching to the roosters and hens, it's laughable.  I know that most people don't have a choice.  To truly have no choice in life is a crime against humanity.  I think the problem is that people don't realise they are cogs in the Wheel of life.  The same cycle, the same traps, the same routine numbness, with sprinkles of meaning and fulfilment and genuine love here and there.  Or else, they realise too late.  Maybe that's what a mid-life crisis is.  I want to know what an end of life crisis is called?    
Anyway, I know it's not all that bad - at least they have each other... at least, the ones who are independent feeders and movers.  And they get to watch movies together on this massive LCD screen TV and play bingo and hardcore wrestle!!!  Actually..I made the last one up... or did I? 
A poem spoken to the cyber emptiness, just because I can.  

Old Woman 

Who is that with hooded eyes?
Whose eyes are like the ashen skies
which cloud and dim and roam for miles,
a shadowed look
and lonely smile?
And as the curtains billow high
the eyes that sigh for days gone by,
"A mausoleum, a crypt, here sit I,
in regimented loneliness where old souls die,
for the love of family faded and dimmed,
I: an empty cup with an overflowing brim,
grew grim as I sat contemplating the lie:
no guarantee of love from family ties. "

Thursday, 29 September 2011

The clairvoyant leaf

Time = 1:30pm-ish
Explanation = Was cooped up in my room typing up an essay for uni when I needed 'a breather' (aka.quick! run outside and stop the onslaught of insanity!!!)...when I walked down some steps and saw a leaf.
A LEAF I TELL YOU!?!!?!?!  A gum leaf from a gum tree to be precise.  It was just hanging there, right smack-bang in the middle, as if it was trying to get my attention.
Or tell me something...
If I hadn't gone up in an inquisitive frame of mind I probably would have severed the little bugger and told it off.  So after examining it for a while I rushed inside to get my camera, coming to a conclusion...

...the leaf is clairvoyant.
Maybe I'm just a batty weirdo in a timid disguise, but I felt as though that leaf was communicating with me.  Or else a spontaneous sign from God showing me what my life will be like, since I've been dwelling on life and death a lot recently.
The leaf was illuminated by the sun, so that every tiny vein threaded together through the leaf could be seen clearly.  It was like staring through a stained glass window in a church.  The pictures don't do justice to the vision at all.   But this is what I thought while I looked at the leaf:
the long pale vain running down the centre of the leaf is the timeline of my life.
I was born at the top upper tip of the leaf (where the stem protrudes from),
I will die where the end tip of the leaf comes to a point.  In the picture the tip is black & dead.
Throughout the leaf there are dark spots - when they were illuminated they were a crimson red
& they are major life events.  Some of the crimson spots touch the lifeline, or crowd close to the lifeline, and others drift away from the lifeline.  I know that the ones that touch the lifeline are negative events, and the ones that drift away from the lifeline are positive events.
There are also dead spots: one at the very outer edge of the leaf near the middle, and one on the very outer edge of the leaf close to my death.  I think they represent a crisis of some sort: either sickness, death of a loved one...
On the back of the leaf there is also this white line that connects two of the crimson spots, representing marriage I think.

This is irrational absurdity, blah blah, but this is honestly what I thought!
Now the leaf sits next to me as a sort of Omen.
Sometimes I think my imagination is too vivid.

Wednesday, 28 September 2011

Cynical romantic, realistic idealist?

He said it was too depressing, the man who handed me the above book, so depressing in fact, that he couldn't finish it.  How fascinating!  In that instance I understood myself through the eyes of another. 
I wonder if any one can finish me. 
Wuthering Heights + slightly intense frame of mind = one of my favourite books.

Cathy: Nelly, I am Heathcliff!  He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.

Heathcliff: And I pray one prayer - I repeat it till my tongue stiffens - Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you - haunt me, then!  The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe.  I know that ghosts have wandered on earth.  Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad!  Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!  I cannot live without my life!  I cannot live without my soul! 

Of course, this is 19th century fiction, but I can't help but wonder if a relationship between two people could ever be so intense.  Most introverted females yearn for something similar to this, possibly minus all the melodrama, digging corpses up from graves, dying from love-sick starvation etc. etc., I think.
Love is only another form of grief though in my experience, and from what I've observed.  But a kind of grief worthy of burning through.
We talk about safety, comfort, protection, care, and these almost phlegmatic words that exist within the sphere of love, but what about speaking of inseparable souls?  Passionate and consuming love?  Is it true that each person in the world has another who was fashioned for them, and them only?  Their echo, their reflection, their pulse?  Or is this just romantic, unrealistic fluff of poetic daydreams?  Divorces, infidelities, what are they a sign of?  When romantic love is boiled down, what does it actually consist of?
I need a scalpel, some binoculars, and a white board.
Luckily we have modern embodiments of Heathcliff and Cathy around - like Geoffrey and Brynne Edelsten.  Who could not see the resemblance??          

In disguise


Monday, 26 September 2011

Vision without action is a daydream. Action without vision is a nightmare.

... .... ........  ...

(couldn't resist

When you trust someone, illusion has already begun

To me, to you, to no one.  Wrote this today in the early hours before work, I left it incomplete.
My scratched insipid eyes are the sinners in the cathedral pews
where saints utter prayers amidst drab, blackened hues
These sinners eyes exalt you as the idol on that pulpit
this witch-tongue protrudes from leech-lips, lapping up your hallowed spit

I live lies, I pretend to be strong but I'm a damned coward.  Masks, walls, under the pretence of strength.  And I know that's not even good enough, it's transparent.  My fear is a mannequin put on display for the world to see behind the glass-wall of my pathetic efforts.  It makes me paranoid. Always paranoia.  Sometimes it's like I can't breathe.  Fear incinerates anything precious or worthy of joy in my life.  Any single morsel of hope and joy I hold in my hands soon is dust.  Then I'm back where I started.  Because of fear.  All of it, screwed up by me. It trails behind, inside of me, before me, around me. I'm sick of trying.  Feed me prozac. I can't find a way out.  I can't find a way to describe it.  It's buried deep inside of me, it's there right now, I don't know how to deal with it for the rest of my life.  Or how any one can deal with me.  That thing inside...all thoughts and actions trail from it, I've watched myself.  How can any one deal with me without judgement, stating what I already know, demonisation, the leper, she's not healthy enough for me, therefore let her rot by herself and miraculously become sane...she needs my holy purging words and let her be... or being put off or repelled or repulsed.  Every single friendship since I graduated, every decent person..I destroyed it.  Fear.  What will be my life like..  I'll keep watching it, now I know it's there.  Jesus have mercy on my soul.

Read something today: we make them cry who care for us.  We cry for those who never care for us.  And we care for those who will never cry for us.  

Re - purposing me

You collect stamps?  I collect hair.

U mad bro?

If we all harvested those divine tresses... the birds would have an easier time making nests in spring!!

Sunday, 25 September 2011

Mediocre melancholy

Everything loses it's innocence. Everything. 
I want to be a child again.
I want my childhood back eternally.   
That little child?  That sister, that brother, 10 years time they'll know about drugs and suicide and murder and sex.
That child could be the next Charles Manson, or Mother Teresa.  They could be a social worker, or trafficking children for sex.  Injecting themselves with drugs or issuing drugs at a counter.  Or both.    The gamble of life.  And the gamble usually results in mind and soul numbing mediocrity, living in homes we can't pay for, jobs that we have no passion for, degrees that cost fifty billion dollars that we slave over only out of obligation, or a socially constructed title..and even then we may not use them.  Ugly habits, ugly minds, ugly houses, ugly jobs.  The hallowed Wheel of life.  Learning lessons too late, saying 'I love you' to the people who know you the best too late... finding the real meaning and purpose too late.  All these things I see all the time.  The things everyone sees, yet accepts.  What is wrong with me?  Why can't I just accept everything as it is and lead a complacent life?  "Hypersensitive, negative, sickly" yeah.. I hear these things in reference to me.  There are no realistic idealists.  Perfection is unrealistic.        
Today... I feel that life is too complex.
I should have been dropped in a vat of psychotropic drugs as a child.  

To me and to no one, to set the mood - howls for this unholy night which mirror the mood.

Saturday, 24 September 2011

A wintry spring day

Simple things for un-simple minds

The perfect remedy for an anxious and convoluted mind!
When life grabs you by the throat with its claws...go prance off into the garden and appreciate the little things.  
A stump of wood that looks like a delicious lil cinnamon roll, the Spring buds of flowers...and this insane forest of 1m high weeds growing in the vege patch!!  (Behold the dandelions :-O ) 

I think the complacency we have soon breeds a contentious mind. 
We become too bored too easily... unthankful too easily...
there is always ' more ' to acquire, something more ideal or more perfect.
And then suddenly all those years of our lives vanished...in a quagmire of anxious oblivion
where the simplicity and beauty of day-to-day was ignored in the pursuit
of all these high-and-mighty things that will perish as well. 
And before we know it...we're as dead as our pursuits.  


Friday, 23 September 2011

Vow of silence

Picking daisies and roaming around the weeds of the garden, I found her.  
She was left in the garden.  And the elements got to her.  She looks like something from The Exorcism of Emily Rose...!  She was sweet but ghastly to look at.  If she had a voice, I wonder what she would say to me, staring into those hollow eye sockets.  
I was left for the sun, wind, rain and spiders.  You left me.
But silence seems to be the most powerful speech.  
I've never much liked speaking.
There should be a "National Vow of Silence" day where everyone shuts their flappers for 24 hours and just listens and watches and thinks and learns about everything that is, and everything that was.  If every person on the planet had their tongue removed *voluntarily* I bet violence would decrease, along with hatred and every venomous emotion.  There would be no language barrier either.  Natural spoken words express so little.  They're coarse and chunky and fail to express the true depth of a person.  You need to think for hours, maybe even days to express a fragment of the true thoughts and feelings you have.  Instead of "the abyss of your eyes, full of unspeakable thoughts, casts a hypnotic vertigo all around you"
it's..."your eyes are real pretty", or if I wanted to speak in the Australian-lingo it would something along the lines of, "hawwwt eyes baybbe!"   
And all the whispering...  the back-biting, the hypocrisy and the gossip... it's all kind of repulsive to me.  And I know that I'm as much of a hypocrite as anyone else.  Half of what makes me a hypocrite is speech.  All this inane babble that's spouted every day... and the infernal 'small talk' where you're obliged to dig up some obscure topic and act all interested about it...it's a mask.  Just another cog in the Wheel of life.  
Kinda like going to the city, sitting at a bus stop and trying to concentrate.  It's pretty much impossible!  All the commotion and traffic and noise and movement are really what words are.  They're distractions.  They're masks because they smother and repress anything that really means anything.  Even writing this now, it's like procrastination.  If I didn't have a job, I think I'd be eccentric enough to take a vow of silence.  In the excess of all this noisy garble is great emptiness.  I've always felt it.
  Mother Teresa said something once:
We need to find God, and He cannot be found in noise or restlessness.  God is the friend of silence.  See how nature - trees, flowers, grass - grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence....We need silence to be able to touch souls.    

Wednesday, 21 September 2011

Comparison is the lover of Jealousy

Feeling down.
Why do I compare myself with others?  What am I trying to prove?
My self worth?
Is it 'competition' - which is the cousin of comparison?
Or that that something that has always shadowed me...a desire to please and be liked?
I think all of them answer my question.

If I cut open my arm and examined the flow of my blood... I'm sure fear would be the undercurrent.
Fear is what motivates me.
Fear is what de-motivates me.
It's like an invisible wind inside of me.  A wind that can't be glimpsed over the thrashing of the waves of thought and emotion it has stirred up.  I live it and breathe it and when I go to sleep it's still in my mind, in my dreams.  Almost every dream that I have is a nightmare, or provokes anxiety.  And it's been that way ever since I was a little girl.
Comparison is born of fear.  I fear that somehow my worth as a human being will be undermined by failing to meet certain standards.  I fear failure.  I fear loss.  I fear criticism.  I fear the unknown.
I fear rejection more than anything else.  I want to be everyone's best friend.  I want to be liked and praised.  I want to be perfect.

My pursuit of perfection means that I can't live a life from the soul.  Perpetual comparison, overwhelming yet almost imperceptible fear, stop me.  There can't be fear with love, and love comes from the soul.
I'm told that religion only exacerbates the pain of the pursuit of perfection.  What rubbish.  My spiritual beliefs have nothing to do with fear.  The way I was raised was - inheriting fear, letting it ripen and rot inside of me is the root.  Not religion.  Preachers may preach fire-and-brimstone lessons, but that  isn't the core of Christianity.  The core is love.  To love your neighbour as yourself.  "Love is patient, love is kind, love isn't jealous.  It doesn't sing it's own praises.  It isn't arrogant........."

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if children were raised with no influence whatsoever.  From anything.  From everything.  To form their own ideas, their own opinions.  To not adopt the essence of another person.  To not learn certain behaviours, and to not carry around in their minds the unconscious gall juiced from their parents and continuously swallowed in childhood.
I don't have children.  I want children.  But the thought of influencing them in such negative ways is horrific.  I could never be the perfect parent, the perfect mother.  But then...that is only the pursuit of perfection.  Maybe I should get my tubes tied.  Maybe I should shut up.  I don't know what to think.      

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

The purple potatoes

I couldn't resist it...they were PURPLE for crying out loud - purple potatoes.  I had to honour their death.  It was around lunch time today that I was acquainted with these lovelies.  I pulled them from the cold crispy abyss of the fridge (amethyst not included) and later had to cook them up for tea.  I stripped them of their beautiful skin and left them looking like the three blind mice:
Poor lil potatoes :-(  
But I made a food-scrap artwork with their hides in the end ;-)
And now they're happily dissolving in my stomach :-D

Monday, 19 September 2011

Wearing and bearing are two different things

Quote: "In 1973, (Mahant Amar Bharti Ji pictured above) raised his hand in honour of Hindu deity Shiva  - and he hasn't put it down since.  In 1970 Amar left his job, family and friends to dedicate himself to his religious beliefs.  Three years later, feeling he was still too connected to his old life, Amar simply raised his hand as a sign of devotion". 
Amar's gesture resulted in the loss of use of his right arm.  His hand and fingernails are now gnarled, attached to an arm that's like an old dead tree; useless flesh and bone protruding in the air. 

I went away from reading this with eyes like round saucers.  I'll pose this question: "how many of us in the Western world are prepared to do what Amar Bharti has done, in devotion to our religion?"  It's rhetorical.  The closest I've seen to displays of devotion to religion, at least to Christianity, are the Crucifix necklaces I see women wear all the time.  You know, the gold or silver ones that look something along the lines of this?: 
 You know?  The ones that people ironically spend $50+ on when there are millions of starving people in the world?  It's an industry. And people are buying into it without realising that wearing a cross isn't the same as bearing a cross. I'm the biggest hypocrite there ever was because I used to wear one as well.  I stopped when I realised how shallow a representation, a declaration of my faith it was, how almost materialistic..kind of like "heyyy gf!! I bought this gawgeous cross with my Homeboyyy on it, it's sooo cute, it has lyk a diamond encrusted crown of thornzzz, and it's lyk 24 C gold!  I was lyk wowww, OMDivinity! xoxo" 
To be blunt... directing this at myself as well, if there was ever a more pathetically passive way of expressing something that is supposed to be at the core of your very person...call me.

Although I don't have faith in Shiva or any other deities other than one God, I admire the virtue of this man.  I admire the simplicity, and the power in that simplicity.  In Australia, it seems that there is power.  But the power is powerful emptiness.  And that emptiness is garnished with the complexity of materialistic living.
 And that materialistic living reinforces my displeasure with everything I see in this "developed" country and the way I live.  This place may be developed, but it aint developed in Soul.  And I know that I can't live the rest of my life like this.  

If you control, you are being controlled

The world needs more thoughtful and sincere people like this:

I have nothing left to say.  

It's a bird! It's a plane!@#*! ..it's a crucifix?

I don't know if I'm being overly superstitious - if that's even the word for it.   But I was lying down on my bed a couple of days ago when I looked up at the ceiling in a dull-sleepy stupor and saw the above.  A crucifix.  On my ceiling.  I'm SURE of it!  I had my iPod next to me at the time, and so, transfixed, I took some pictures - I also took about 5 videos of it crazy-bag-lady style, here's one hehe:

Of course, this could be rationalised "logically", blahdeblahblahblah, but I like to see this as a mystery.  I couldn't actually find where the light reflection was coming from.  It provokes the imagination as well.  At the left side of the crucifix is what looks like a triangular shape, like this ^.  I think that represents the God the Father.  On the right arm of the crucifix is a round refraction of light, it seems to be perched there!  I think it represents the Holy Spirit, and then, the glowing circle in the middle of the crucifix is the heart of Jesus.  The crucifix-image on my ceiling would fade into nothing and then slowly brighten, kind of like a slowly beating pulse.  While I watched it I wondered if God was trying to communicate with me ,( ...not to sound all E.T lol).   I watched it for about 15 minutes until I decided to call it quits and have a siesta nap.     

Saturday, 17 September 2011

The cure for pain is in the pain

A simple old widow pottering around in her flower garden.  A young couple sucking each others face off next to me on the train. (Well not precisely, though if you think of Dementors, THAT would be close enough...) 
The two juxtaposed made me think about love and how absurd and beautiful the whole affair is.
It was around 9:30am this morning that I was catching the train to the city.  The couple were in their late teens to early 20's...canoodling, fondling, pecking each other on the cheek, talking lowly to each other, and then making loud exclamations "ooh, you're such an idiot, bleep bleep" and then more fondling.  Etcetera etcetera.  Meanwhile I was sitting there feeling like a cynical old woman.  "Will it last?"  I thought quite darkly to myself.  Will.it.last.  "After all", I thought as well, "all those love chemicals (vasopresin, oxytocin, phenylephrine to name a few) are going to wear off after a while, and THEN what will you do?"   Apparently that's why most marriages fail - because those love chemicals that induce euphoric, hyper-sexual and idealised ideas and feelings fade.  Does that make most people love drug addicts, who, upon getting 'withdrawal symptoms' (i.e. no more sexy time), leave and move on to their next "lover"?   Isn't that what I see all the time with people like, for example, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie?  
The real tragedy is that whatever makes love last...appears to be the holy grail of this world, lost, obscure, hard to find.  But I think the cure for the pain is in the pain.  To not run from the fact that our sexy feelings fade, to not be pleasure seekers, seeking immediate stimulation that will only deliver an ephemeral, shallow kind of relief.  And probably ruin peoples lives as well.  But to ask 'why?'  To maintain that inquisitive state of mind, or to seek after it again, after it was culled in childhood in most of us in one way or another.  Because if we don't think, if we don't understand ourselves, if we don't immerse ourselves in that pain and really think about how it will help us, why/how it occurred...we'll be sitting on the merry-go-round of despair for the rest of our lives.  Full circle.  Endless loop.  Continuous cycle of that same problem, over and over.  
I looked at that old woman and saw how alone she was after I came back from the city.  Isn't that the fate of most of us?  The old woman is just like the old lady Mavis who used to lived near me.  Except she's dead.  She was alone as well, and when she died everything she ever possessed was auctioned off to a hungry crowd of people, waiting to accumulate possessions that will only get auctioned off again, or break or rot.  All of which they think will some how make them truly happy.  But if Mavis took nothing to the grave, so will they.  Both loved, but if their love didn't die, their lover did in the end.  

Friday, 16 September 2011

Change is the only constant

...which is why I know this blog is going to look like a nuclear testing field after I've defaced it with my thoughts. Hey... what can I say?  ...........................................You mad bro?  

7:04pm, Friday the 16th of September 2011.  I start my life of crime.
R.I.P.  Cyber Reclusion
Okay, right right...let me think about what to write in this virginal entry of my
(with sprinkles of joviality and jubilee on top)
 contemplating some more
7:16pm and 36 seconds  
"Quick! llama!"

More contemplating
 Profound musing
7:35 and 56 seconds
Nope. Nothing.  
Well then......, until next time!
...If there is one
...and I don't die, 
which is
No really