* It makes no sense that I loved Pink Floyd as a kid, and always swore that the day they reformed would be the happiest of my life, yet now that it's happened I'm curiously unimpressed. Maybe it's because they're so far past their prime. Maybe it's because I don't need Pink Floyd the way I used to. Or, maybe, I'm still bitter of the 2002 incident with Mr. Waters. Either way, this makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that I spent my entire life studying writing and illustration, yet I'm too much of a chicken to submit my work. I still don't really believe that it's any good - and for some reason, I can't shake myself out of that mindset. I've just spent too long convincing myself that I'm crap, I have no talent, and I'm better off doing anything else. This makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that I'm always going on about how I am the one last beacon of honesty and truth left in a world built on lies and horseshit, yet I relentlessly lie about myself because I just don't want to talk about it. This makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that although I love the Torana and the fact that I can get in it, start the engine, and it will take me wherever I want to go - I'm always aware that wherever I go, the Torana will take me home. And I'm far, far, far more comfortable with the latter. Driving somewhere makes me feel hesitant and uncomfortable. Driving home makes me relax. This makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that I'm so desperate to avoid getting too far away from what I used to be as a younger person, and that I don't want to forget what it was like to be two, or five, or eighteen - yet, for the most part, I was incredibly miserable all the time, and put up with all manner of godawful shit for years on end. This makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that I rue the day I ever put on The Cure and decided that I'd be cool if I wore really shitty makeup and danced drunkenly at goth nightclubs, yet I'm rarely seen without the same long, black overcoat that I wore at the time. This makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that as time goes on, I tend to identify the narrative of my parents life with any number of Harry Chapin songs - yet Chapin's lyrics are almost all incredibly depressing and unsettling, with nary a happy ending in sight - despite the fact that I want nothing more than for my parents to be happy. Especially after all that's happened. But, for some reason, every time I hear one of those records, they remind me so strongly of the photos I've seen of J.E and Sands in their youth - back when they had things to smile about. This makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that I put so much stock in music and film - when , if I'm totally honest, 99% of musicians and filmmakers are narcissistic, self-important scum who would sooner take a dump in my mailbox than say hello to me. Even though I know that these people I idolise are horribly pretentious and arrogant, I can't help but look up to them. This makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that even though Cameron has metamorphosed into a brain-damaged yahoo who is incapable of stringing a sentence together without interrupting it with a bong hit, and who hasn't called me in many years, I can't help but miss the stupid bastard - and feel horribly disappointed every time I see him. This makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that the world grows up, while I stay the same - and every time I try to grow up, I slip into the same old paranoia.
* It makes no senes that I've built such a total dependance on a weatherboard house in the northern suburbs of Melbourne.
* It makes no sense that I absolutely cannot stand people looking at me - at all.
* It makes no sense that I've filled this house, our garage, and our shed with acres of objects which are designed to recreate moments that occurred years ago. Things die - and then they're gone, and you can't bring them back, but for some reason, I can't stop trying. I don't want things to end - I want to put the world in a freezer and leave it there. And somehow, I've convinced myself that through this house, I can do that. I've convinced myself that once I move into a certain zone, time fades away and all that's left is the recycling of chronology. This makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that I miss a lot of my old friends from university days, despite the fact that many have revealed themselves to be disgusting, selfish, evil motherfuckers who basically deserve to have their balls kicked in. I guess beer and ennui can bond you faster than glue. Can't help but miss some people, despite the fact that they think I'm a human disaster area who is too much trouble. This makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that I'm so deathly afraid of getting very close to people, still. I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe Kathryn's right, and I'm petrified of people. Well, you would be too. If you were me. Of course, it's wrong and it makes no sense - but it's a terribly hard habit to break. Curiously enough, in a lot of ways, I don't want to break it. Is it wrong to still have that urge to just close the blinds, take the phone off the hook, and cease to exist? Maybe that's what Nowhere was about in the end - I'm not so sure that I was looking down on that character, so much as glorifying him. But, I made him incredibly unhappy - so, does that mean that I secretly want to be unhappy? That can't be right, because I hate being unhappy. I don't want to be unhappy. So, what was I saying? This makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that I look back fondly on times that were horrible. I hated being 13. I hated being 16. I was out of my mind most of the time with deranged anger, and was in and out of therapy. But, now, I look back and wish more than anything that I was back there. This could mean two things - either I feel like I'm lost with nothing to whine about, which isn't very likely - or, it's that I've found myself in a serious mess as my twenties drag on. Does this mean that if I look back at 36 and wish I was back at 26, I'm destined for some awful, horrible stuff?
* It makes no sense that I find it so hard to sleep, but I nod off during the day.
* It makes no sense that I'm so terrified about next week. I have to go and see a neurosurgeon. My back has become so bad that I've fallen over a few times, and it's getting harder and harder to sleep - so, I went to a new doctor, and the new doctor gave me a referral to the neurosurgeon. I talked to the doctor for a while, and he said that I have the spine of an 80 year old and that what they might do is cut me open and stick a metal rod in my back to straighten me up. What a horrible thought. If they do have to do it, I'll have to learn to walk properly again. It's all very daunting. Apparently, the cause of it was 'severe trauma during adolescence'. You know what I keep thinking about when I'm lying awake at night? If I went in for the operation, and I died on the operating table, you could almost say that they killed me years ago but I didn't even realise it. That'd be an ironic way to go out. The doctor said there are 'risks' involved. Imagine waking up paralysed. Good grief. It's almost too horrifying to contemplate. And, judging by my family's history with disasters of all kinds, it'd be just my luck that the doctor would slip and screw me up for life. None of this makes any sense.
* It makes no sense that I take such completely perverse pleasure in the feeling of escape and retreat. I'm never happier than I am when I've confronted a situation that I'm challenged by, I've considered it from all angles, and I've decided to run a mile as fast as possible. This makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that I know NMIT will be good for me, and that teaching writing isn't so bad, and that it'll be a way to pay the bills while I get my creative career together, but the one thing that makes my heart sink just to consider is the fact that it's one night a week. One night a week. Night. What is it about the segmented borders that I've placed throughout the 24 hours of the day? Waking u p to twelve is reading news, coffee, shopping, and starting work. 12 to 5 is solid writing, editing, or whatever else I need to do. 5 - 7:30 is cooking, cleaning, eating, and talking with the rents. 7:30 - 9 is time to do stuff - watching teev, or playing some Halo or whatever. From 9 onwards, I can go out - but not too late. I need to get back before my brain splits open and my mind falls out. And when I get home, more news reading, ten minutes to find music for sleep, and ten minutes to get Bronnie out of the lounge, and get her to go to sleep either on my bed, under my bed, or on her mat. Any deviation from the rules knocks me around and makes me feel like the entire world is falling to pieces. It's incredibly crazy and strange. It makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that I take the failure of every new Star Wars movie as some kind of personal attack on my person by George Lucas. I feel violated in some strange way - as though he's got me drunk and interfered with me while I'm half-passed out. This makes no sense.
* It makes no sense that the Bundoora/Mill Park border is a place that I'm sure the real Australia lives - yet I wouldn't be caught dead living there. Nonetheless, for reasons that I just don't understand, Cold Chisel records permanently remind me of that place.
* It makes no sense that I've never managed to get over anything, ever, at any time in my entire life. I'm still grieving/lamenting/am embarassed by/am angered by/am affected by things that happened when I was 5. Seriously, I can still remember crying my eyes out one day when my mother brought me to school - and I didn't want to go inside - and eventually, the teacher grabbed me and dragged me in, and all the other kids were staring at me. I was thinking about it the other night, and it wasn't just a silly memory from years ago - I could still remember exactly what it felt like, and I felt horribly, cringingly embarassed by it. Maybe trying to eradicate chronological personal narratives have a downside, in that you might be able to continually, relentlessly relive what it was like to run your hands on the carpet while watching cartoons - yet you also have to remember how it felt to have your face smashed into a wall until it broke open when you were 10. None of this makes any sense.
* It makes no sense that I should ever expect anyone to want to hear about this stuff, let alone be able to forgive me for it.
* It makes no sense that I'm still awake.
* It makes no sense that I swore I'd avoid writing profound, soul-baring entries on this cockamamie webpage, yet here I am doing it. I wonder what triggered this off.
* It makes no sense that I'm so threatened by all of your success.
* It makes no sense that I'm so nonchalant and disinterested in my own.
* It makes no sense that the rules I'm so terrified of breaking are rules I made up for myself.
* It makes no sense that I'm still writing.
* It makes no sense that you're still reading.
I stumbled onto your blog accidentally. Actually, I was sneaking around similar sites looking for a specific blog. I shouldn't be reading that blog; it's a good thing yours was so engrossing. Nice work, and thanks for the distraction.
Posted by: Elizabeth at June 18, 2005 08:51 AMbum
Posted by: bel at June 20, 2005 10:23 AMFuck man -- it may make no sense to you that I find this this post very moving. But I do. And not in a shmultzy (spelling?), corny fashion either.
A lot of what you said reads true with my own insecurities.
There is much to comment on here but I will hold my tongue. Except to say: stop doubting your ability as a writer. I know that is easy to say, as I myself am constantly filled with self-doubt and anxiety. But I am convinced that you're a great writer! Just keep your back straight (pardon the pun) and hold your head up. Even if that makes no sense as well.
Posted by: The Flea at June 26, 2005 09:00 PMWtf? I just posted my thoughts here and they haven't appeared.
Oh well . . . I'm not going to write it all again.
Just wanted to say (again) that I thought this was a great post and I hope you will stop doubting yourself as a writer. Seriously man, there is no doubt that you're a talented writer.
I know what it's like to be insecure etc . . . so what I say here is probably irrelevant to you anyway.
But I myself, think you have what it takes.
Posted by: The Flea at June 26, 2005 09:03 PMwhat makes no sense is that where the tortured writer spends years of agonising pain and intellectual doubt to create something they will never feel satisfied with, these days it seems any Jenny, Harry or Dick can get published just for writing up an online account of their sexcapades...it is a buyers market out there, not a creators.
I'm sorry, that is just my personal little gripe for the day. I'll go to bed and hug my bear now.
Posted by: naridu at June 28, 2005 12:05 AM