February 13, 2010


If all planes took us this far I'd never live on earth.

I'll still be here, just elsewhere, too.

December 31, 2009


4 photographs from this december.

1. If there were no clouds in the sky, the sun would stretch its hand through the dusty kitchen window and sprinkle rainbow coloured droplets all over the cabinets, the tables, the walls and floors and my skin, all at 8:30 in the morning, and never again throughout the day.

2. Hung on the Christmas trees. Christmas itself is a high voltage affair. I hope your Christmases were lovely this year.

3. My view of The Magnificents from my window at the Mandarin Oriental. As I write this the window behind me plays a silent movie of the city at night. It's 4:31 in the morning and there are cars along the road, dragging streaks of red as they ignore traffic lights and painted lines and orders to stop, slow down, watch ahead. There are scattered flecks of glitter all over the skyline too and they all twinkle like stars, but better. It won't get any more cliché than that but I guess that's what makes cliché, cliché. There is no other way to put it.

4. Star Wars characters in an accidental photograph. If you look carefully you can see Princess Leia and Han Solo and the rest of the names, I've forgotten. But they're all there.

December 18, 2009


My mother used to say I had circulatory problems. That's why, when I was younger, you could see my veins under my arms and legs. Spidery lines of red and blue and grey scribbled underneath the flesh. The live in house maids of my friends used to grab me by the wrists and question such a travesty. What is wrong with you? Is this normal? Is your mother making you drink enough water?

It was also why I get pins and needles far more frequently than most others. Morning assemblies in school were torture, a school girl on the floor in the agonising pain of much more than just pins or needles. Upon standing my legs would go numb, and then ticklish, and more often than not I'd have to lean on a friend amidst the scrambling, eager-to-get-to-maths-class crowd as they pushed past me, through me, into me, and wait for it to pass with my eyes closed tight.

Perhaps it is also why my heart rate is far higher than it should be. During a physical education lesson last year the fairly-young-but-far-wiser-but-not-really English teacher had us calculate our heart rate while we sat in the empty canteen in the afternoon. Mine was far higher than the rest of the class and I was accused of not calculating it properly, but she took it back when she did it herself. My dad did the same last week. His response was stop worrying, whatever it is. Perhaps I'm a worrier. Perhaps I have circulatory problems. Perhaps I'm just not as healthy as I should be.

My mother used to say I had circulatory problems. These days my mother just tells me to stop making excuses.

I still don't drink enough water though.

The over-processed view from my bedroom window.

December 01, 2009


I just got back from watching Tom perform in Habour Theatre's production of Oliver Twist. Good stuff. According to him Harbour Theatre is being kicked out of the Princess May Building and is moving across the street to another, so this is your last chance to watch any production in the musky-but-homey building erected (ha ha ha) in 1904. I read all the plaque information while I waited. Ticket prices are $13 for concession, please go. You get a free glass of orange juice but I forgot to claim mine. Click here for more information.

L and I wandered around Fremantle beforehand , searching for dinner and talking about Corpus and people and fish and water bottles and reasons why four months is actually a really long time. It was pleasant but I didn't bring my camera. I felt so naked. I've never been in Fremantle without a camera before.

I'm currently downloading every possible overplayed and mainstream dance song I can think of. They remind me of home. My 13 year old self is yelling profanities at me, shaking her head and asking how the fuck I could possibly have sunken to such a low and despicable level. Sorry. Some of these songs are really quite good.

I can't stop thinking about the lights.

November 21, 2009


I wrote a really long post about my dreams (literal meaning, I only just woke up) and anonymous letters and being a child but I've erased it all. It's a saturday afternoon (nearly evening) and I have no energy left to open such things. The house is quiet but I can hear my mom's fingers on the piano. Just the fingers, never the music. She keeps it to her ears. I can also hear the trains pass and, occasionally, the sound of the car honk blaring at a cyclist/pedestrian/self minded prejudice/another car.

Silent saturdays are not what I live for but at this point in time they're only satisfying. Better than numbers, better than geography, better than the search for a jewel toned cloud(ed judgement) of a friday night (the friday night). I think lazy saturdays are more justifiable than lazy sundays are. Sundays are bad for the soul. They turn me into the empty shells on shelves; the kind to sing the echoes of its first impressions of my home, the sea. Sundays should not be filled with the sounds of saturday's echoes, no. I think sunday should have a sound of its own.

December 12th.

November 16, 2009


1. I'm so very tired.

1 and a 1/2. Not just in the physical heavy-eyes-hurting, lungs-not-breathing, oh-my-god-I-can't-walk-in-a-straight-line kind of way, or even a mental sort of tiredness where I can't keep a train of thought much further from food, or pictures, or daydreaming. This sort of tiredness is a sickness of everything. I'm so very tired of people and their good ways and bad ways, of doing nothing and everything and some things, of wanting this and that and getting just the one. I'm tired of waiting, of moving too fast, of going too slow, of running around in circles which I seem to do a lot these days. I'm just tired of being tired, sick of being sick, annoyed with being annoyed (in both the ways you are thinking -- I'm clever like that). For crying out loud will you GROW THE FUCK UP.

2. I am longing for bright lights, whizzing lights, blinking lights, strobe lights, colourful lights, flashing lights, red lights and green lights (no amber lights), dimmer lights, kitchen lights, fairy lights, christmas lights, LED lights, bright lights, and lightning.

3. I'm very homesick. Nobody is making it better. I want to leave leave leave and overuse my commas in a room after I'm back from a big night and my eyeliner is halfway down my cheek and my hair is a mess and I can't hear anything or see anything and I feel empty but the emptiness is good. I would do a lot for it, right now, now,,,,, now,,,,,,,,,,,,

4. I need human interaction.

5. Remember how we stood there with our bottles of Cruiser Blacks and you said "This isn't a good idea" and I said "It's like 6.4, what are you worried about" and you said "No, I mean, I think I'm making a mistake breaking up with him, he's been so good to me but it just doesn't feel right" and I started singing? It may have been the 6.4. I'm sorry. You really are perfect for each other. Don't listen to my songs.

6. I forgot what number six was.

(Taken a week ago. I didn't know such things existed in the patch of weed I call my garden. The yellow flower is from John Hughes. They gave us a bouquet for the purchase of my mother's brand new, light blue Toyota. I wonder why dealerships give flowers people who purchase cars, but boys don't to the girls they love.)

7. There are three slices of cold pizza and one slice says "EAT ME" and the other says "DRINK ME" and the last one doesn't say anything and I reckon this is why everyone thought Lewis Carroll was high most of the time.

8. I secretly want to hit you. So hard you start crying. You're my best friend, but fuck. Sometimes I just want to hit you.

9. Quiero volver al partido. Quiero inhalar las estrellas y decirle cuanto le amo. Porque le amo realmente. No. Pero si. (I don't know how to put in the accents.)

10. I'm watching Mars Attacks right now on channel 99 and it brings back a lot of memories of us wearing our spaghetti strainer hats, hiding behind the sofa with wooden spoons and ballpoint pens and other things we thought would make good weapons. Do you miss it as much as I do?

El fin.

This is the worst entry of my life.

November 08, 2009


Holga roll.

I have nothing else to say.