body language · Sun Aug 31, 09:40 pm by Bron
There’s a photo that will take centre place on my fridge for a while. I can never have too many reminders.
In Troop Cafe, with a sickening grin across my face, I have my bare feet up, aimed at the camera. My souls are filthy, black from heel to toe.
My body is a gift. It’s good to me. And I really need to respect it. Be good to it.
Sunday lament · Sun Aug 31, 07:21 pm by Bron
stupidstupidstupidhead.
well Dan left this evening so for the next four months I’ve got the place to myself. I should try to behave.
I’m cutting the phone and the internet. Just an experiment while they’re gone. I’ll probably just find the dvds will fill that hole, but I’m cheering for the books mainly.
I would kill for one more day.
By name and nature · Sun Aug 31, 02:15 pm by Bron
The place is brilliant I have to say. Although, over the course of the night after a few deliciously expensive cocktails, and a few bottles of cheap champagne I steadily worked myself into the kind they don’t want in there. Apparently.
I hit the floor by myself before it got packed out. A little later on I managed to drag Beth on, but she had to stop because the pain of laughing as I twirled around the volcano was too much. Apparently.
“Hey that guy looks like Daniel Johns. I think it is.” Later I saw he was sitting in a booth with Katie Steele, and for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to go and say hi..
So there’s me marching over, starting up the stairs- I imagine you could almost see me push my invisible sleeves up. Of course there’s some guy there to make sure this kind of thing doesn’t happen, and tells me I can’t go up. Righto then, that’s it. What a perfect opportunity to make a complete tool of myself.
I shout “KAAATIE!! I—-KNOW—-YOU!!” BAAHA! oh my dear lord.
I see Dijon. Yay, someone else I can shout “I know you” to. He doesn’t recognise me at first. By this point there are loads of people on the floor, and the go-go girls are going. Perhaps my antics were lost in the crowd, or at least I hope. But someone noticed something, because I got kicked out. Apparently. By a one-armed bouncer. Ian was told “go and sort your friend out will ya”, but I still have no idea what I did to get the boot. Maybe I had another go at young Mr Johns.
Walked home. There was a wall, and the jumping off from the wall. Might explain the extreme bruising on my knees. But no, he said I landed on my arse.
“Was good to see you again.”
Well, I guess that was me. Being me. Being resiliently so.
Why you cannot see yourself in my eyes · Fri Aug 29, 11:59 pm by Bron
“Cut away from yourself, not t’ward”
[Molly Grue]
Cut away. Peel away. There is only more of the same beneath. It is all you. me. someone. And you cannot see yourself in my eyes, because you don’t possess that view anymore. You do not stand at the window to my soul.
I am looking out, and it’s a beautiful day without you.
Blip · Thu Aug 28, 11:56 pm by Bron
the last few weeks have been a blur- of noise, and a little fury. but somehow I’m still afloat. A bobbing apple in a bucket. I made myself sick with the stress. there’s been that fire in my gut, and those sleepless nights again. When for a while there I’d almost forgotten them.
I need to have my moles checked. there’s a few that are a little scary. but I’ve been saying that for a while now. Like i do with my work, some of these things in my life just get missed by the radar. and then those itty bitty blips have turned into bombshells.
the cleaner approached me the other night as I was leaving the building about 7- always seems a bit creepy, I can’t tell for sure if he’s angry yelling at me in his thickly accented broken english, or if he’s showing concern in some misunderstood way. but he’s standing too close, whichever it is.
Got my donor card in the mail. A+. I thought I was a universal, but looks like I can accept from 4 types and only give to 2. I was happy to find that I could finally donate though. It’s quite bizarre seeing that little bag fill up, rocking back and forth. I have great veins.
I’m considering Stevie Wonder.
Demerit point(s) [1]
whiskey sour · Sun Aug 24, 04:48 pm by Bron
I am completely devoid of all feeling, though he has no idea. This is not a talent I’m proud of. But I soon withdraw from the act. And I want him out of my bed, unstuck from my side. I hate what I’ve just done. And I am so cold. I have so much anger right now.
Generally, when we can proceed no further, we have return still open to us; but there return was as impossible as advance, for every pass had closed behind us… [verne]
So I will pick up my sickle. I cannot replace you. And I don’t want to. I will not be embarrassed by my feelings for you. They will not be denied, and I think they are what will lead me through, in time.
Will takes my hand. And I am overwhelmed by how beautiful this little soul is.
there is nothing up my sleeve · Tue Aug 19, 10:52 pm by Bron
sometimes when a cliche comes calling, you may as well go ahead and do it (the in)justice anyway. so tonight; if this were all a deck of cards, each one standing for some significant moment or chapter, then so many of those cards are already face up. pages turned. can’t just put them back on the bottom of the pile. can’t just toss them out. a deck is a deck. (no matter how many jokers it’s loaded with).
Lead feet · Sun Aug 17, 02:22 pm by Bron
Two nights ago I had this incredible dream, that I learned the meaning of life, for want of a better phrase. In a way it was a mix between The Matrix and Battlestar. I knew what we broke down into. Beneath matter. I had to let others in on it, but only a few at a time, to avoid panic. It was like a video game. We’d gain a little ground, and then be destroyed, discovered, and have to start from the bigging all over again, just to gain a little more ground than before, and let a few more in on it. It was exhausting, but that feeling that it just has to be done was so intense.
I felt paralysed. That sensation when you’re trying to speak, but can’t, so you’re screaming, trying to force the words out, but they don’t come. I’m sure I would have been talking in my sleep. It’s so strange, being aware of your state, aware that you’re sleeping, and that belief in the reality of the dream creates a new dimension. I was trying so hard to communicate with myself. My sleeping self. Telling myseld to get up and write this down so I would remember. So I had proof. But I was so heavy I couldn’t move. Paralysis.
story in a stolen suitcase · Mon Aug 11, 11:19 pm by Bron
Lost Holiday was the second Rev Fest screening I saw this year. I didn’t think much of the shorts- only a couple reeled me in: the quirky Rubberheart (USA), and Manden Og Magen (The Man and the Albatross, Danish) which I thought was beautifully poignant. Ending the series with DJ Dazz (Aussie Oi Oi) was a bad move. I suppose if they were trying to capture the pain of it all, I certainly felt it.
To be honest there were a few moments in Lost Holiday where I found myself cringing. The struggle to develop the plot for one was a little too obvious, and this then spilt over with a messy transition between the filmmakers following the story and then leading it along by the nose as they inserted themselves into the frame.
The soundtrack was just bizarre, but maybe it’s uniquely Czech, and in a way it suited the bubble and squeak that was served up.
I missed the first five minutes, where the objective of the documentary was stated with super: to find out if people could be located, just with the use of photographs. Their toolbox: 22 rolls of film that were discovered in a suitcase discarded in a skip bin in a run-down part of Sweden. I get the feeling this neat little objective was refined only after the film had been completed, and they could work back-to-front.
It was worth it though- the reunion is hilarious! Made even more so by the fact we learn almost nothing about what these men were doing on their travels and why they visited the places they did. Such ceremony, for so little. An exhibition, a documentary, and a round of news stories, for a few smiles and, “hey, that’s me!” Hilarious.
Can we talk about this when I get back from Alaska? · Sun Aug 10, 05:16 pm by Bron
God, the tears in that old man’s eyes as he anticipates that farewell are heartbreaking. Such a beautiful shot. (An ocean. A desert). The beauty and the loneliness in his eyes is heartbreaking.
I’m torn by this film. By this one boy’s philosophy. His life choices. He says we place too much importance on the relationships between people, and maybe that is true. It’s bitterly true of myself. Having meaningful relationships is so important to me. Despite how I seem to shred them to pieces. How often those values are not reflected by others. I live with this growing, pulsing realisation of all that I face alone. And in realisation, perhaps I make myself an unattractive aly. A philosophy that must do me no favours.
“Happiness in not real unless shared.” I wouldn’t say I agree with that completely- experiencing something entirely alone can be an amazing thing. And that moment’s reality does not depend on others possessing knowledge of its existence. But there’s a world of happiness in sharing of your life, and being taken in and overlapped by the lives of others.
I do not believe in promises. I only have cause for suspicion. I am a tough critic when it comes to friendships- often before I even know it, all has been abandoned. But let’s talk about that when I get back from Alaska.