The business of sadness

I have a document on my desktop called 'diary' and it's just another place where I write about the things that I think about, like my notebooks, like the notes section in my iPhone, like my wall, like my hand, like the bit of toilet paper from last night's pub, like this blog. I like 'diary' though because it's been my latest project, something that I can make pretty and edit and practice improving writing even if the writing is just about my crazy head. I went back to it this afternoon suddenly remembering the drunken essay I'd thought was genius when I wrote it around 1.30am the other morning; turns out, that while genius presents itself in many forms, my typo-ridden prose written while listening to I Can't Make You Love Me and drinking the remains of a 80:20 ratio mix of vodka and orange juice is not one of them. 

I laugh about a lot of things, mainly The Simpsons and this video, but one of the things I like to laugh about the most is how ridiculous I can be. I get sad a lot, but admittedly the humour in it is somehow obvious, particularly when re-reading something that seemed so profound at the time that I assumed Leonard Cohen would ring me up in tears, singing the praises of my complex metaphors and obscene despair and begging me to duet with him or at least proofread his new poetry collection. I like the headiness of being a teenager even if it hurts,  and I like believing anything to be possible. When I get old I hope I don't lose that, because I just don't think I could ever be happy without seeing something kind of funny in all moodiness' self-indulgence and melodramatics. 

Here is a picture of me in the 'writer's studio' (my bed) trying to be Lana Del Rey. 

Beauty rich and rare

I spoke to one of my school teachers about POLITICS once. Once, mind you, and not again - I prefer to ignore the complexities of politics and rather think about The Spice Girls and blow-pens. One thing that they said stuck with me though, and that was that there is no one to be inspired by in politics these days. I guess I remember that because it makes sense, really. I am sad to say that I am indeed not inspired by any politician that I know of today and gain more inspiration from the likes of Charlie Bucket than I do any middle aged upper middle class white man sitting frowny in Parliament. 


I do remember when Barack Obama was sworn in and carried the hope of millions on his shoulders and I was touched when he and Michelle Obama danced and Beyonce sung 'At Last', sure. But mainly I just love Beyonce and Etta James and the lighting was beautiful and I'm a serious romantic and was more inspired by pretty love between a nice couple than I was engaged in a whirlwind of hope for the future of America and the world. I remember when Julia Gillard took over from Kevin Rudd as Prime Minister of Australia and I was not pleased, not inspired, not impressed by our first female Prime Minister - just mainly pissed off and disillusioned with the deceit that got Gillard to where she is today. And that's not to say she's the only one, either. Each of the potential leaders of this country - Gillard, Rudd, and Tony 'Red Speedo' Abbott - have proved themselves to be idiotic, offensive, rude and/or sulky. On a global scale our leadership crisis is an embarrassment to Australia.


I feel like the consensus on the 'apathy' of my generation in general, however, is overestimated and unfair. I care about lots of things, including my family, friends, the state of my country and its environment, climate change, Aboriginal Australian rights including land rights and education and life expectancy discrepancies, homelessness, immigration and multiculturalism, equal gender and marriage rights - even between drinking bottles of cheap wine and listening to Lady Gaga and substituting 's's with dollar signs and refreshing Facebook people my age really do care about things like that. From my experience, anyway, being surrounded by relatively intelligent lifeforms of around 16-21 years of age and being within this age bracket myself. We do care about stuff. 


One event that did fill me with some semblance of hope was the apology to Aboriginal Australians, made by Kevin Rudd when he was Prime Minister. Long overdue and side-stepped by haughty white men it was a relatively simple concept that seemed to go a long way. That day I felt a slight release from the confusing guilt and sadness that consumes me when I think about past atrocities; bemused shame would keep me distant from blackfellas I saw around even rarely, knowing the sad state of their people, who are, as a whole, gentle, fun-loving and sharing of a careful and nurturing connection to our land. 


But of course the promise that provided inspiration to our country faded as the heady glow of TALK diminished without the follow up of action. Sure, policies were put in place in order to improve the lives of Aboriginal Australians, laws made, whatever - but have things really changed? It will take years, I know - but surely there is more that can be done? 


What I'm seeing, in all my youth and naiveté, is a country run by politicians who are so afraid of being robbed of power, or afraid of backlash, or are too full of pride, or a combination of the three, to actually DO anything. Our country is floundering under the weight of uncertainty and our society is suffering as a result. Maybe not like REALLY obviously or really badly, like in the way that, say, Burma's people are suffering, but still. I guess life will always be unpredictable but I know for myself, anyway, that a government should strive to create for their people some kind of sense of the following: security, happiness, hope, equality. 


I probably don't know enough about politics to be making such assumptions. I don't know much about much other than The Brady Bunch and Joni Mitchell's discography but as they say, I'm just 'putting it out there'. I do think, though, that maybe, just maybe, if our government took more of a sincere interest in my generation, and people my age began to take more interest in our government, we could come to some kind of state of mutual- heightened interest. It takes two to tango I guess. 


I'm out of my depth. Here are some pictures of Phar Lap because I like him. The ultimate taxidermy.

Nothing to chase but our tails

Being thankful for things is a pastime I like to indulge in as often as possible, particularly on those days when all I can do is stay inside and watch The Simpsons and eat museli bars.  


I'm thankful for being young, being stupid but in a good headstrong way, being smart, having friends who come over to my house with cheap wine without warning, being in a band where we play fun music then go and walk the streets like a teenage gang to get supplies from the supermarket, being at a uni where I feel like I fit in and making new friends there too and being able to be creative all the time and getting better and better at what I love, lucky dresses and rings, fake eyelashes, fake cats and polystyrene birds, air conditioning, mum and dad and my sisters and my nanas and auntys and uncles etc etc, music bad and good and everything else, The Brady Bunch, weeties, chance meetings that are worth it even if they hurt later, getting paid, being able to run and jump and dance and being healthy and being strong, canned tuna in olive oil, being lucky, being free, believing in things and dreaming about things and maybe it's not so bad to be sad sometimes - at least you know you can feel the spectrum.

'My happiness is a comet that shines so brightly, the light creeps through the horizons of my mind, touching the nearby days of my past and future, dissolving bleary pictures into an oily canvas that paints streaks of yellow and white along my synaesthesic highway. My hope compass.

'It’s almost worth it.'

(see here)

Hi this is not a real post but I thought I should let you know that I have culled some of my social media sites including:

- my triple j unearthed page
- my facebook page
- my youtube account
- my tumblr account

for various reasons:

- I cannot be bothered maintaining them all which I really was struggling to do anyway
- I have different ideas for some projects that I would like to spend some time working on
- I care the most about this blog and really only want to continue updating it on a regular basis
- Time spent not online is time otherwise spent doing something better like singing or talking to my dog or eating peanut butter or something.

x

'It's like I told you honey
Don't make me sad, don't make me cry
Sometimes love is not enough and the road gets tough
I don't know why
Keep making me laugh,
Let's go get high
The road is long, we carry on
Try to have fun in the meantime

'Come and take a walk on the wild side
Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain
You like your girls insane
Choose your last words
This is the last time -


'Cause you and I, we were born to die.'

Born to die

So it's been OVER A WEEK since my last post which is UNHEARD OF but I can explain. See, even those as pensioneresque as myself can be employed by their mothers, or play in a band, or be preparing for uni, or be watching season four of the Brady Bunch and discovering that the same extras have been used twice for bit parts in different seasons then realising the extent to which life has now become kind of sad. 


1. Employed by their mothers. 
So my Ma has a florist and as you alert young readers should well be aware, Valentine's Day has just passed recently. I spent the days leading up to VDAY de-thorning red roses for other people's sweethearts and hand-feeding chocolate hedgehogs to my Mum as she drowned herself in foliage. 

2. Plays in a band.
So Volumetric played at a high school formal last night, which was good fun for good money - however we did spend a alarming/unhealthy amount of time playing Truly Madly Deeply by Savage Garden in the weeks preceding. Despite this whole formal thing not really being our scene, we had a fun time, and in the words of Greg Brady we 'really bent the gig outta shape'. We also learnt a lot about song choice sound mixing yadda yadda yadda. Perhaps the most important lesson we learnt on the night, however, was that Fight For Your Right by Beastie Boys should come branded with a health warning. Not only did I nearly fall off the amp I stupidly trusted to hold my weight and break my neck, but we played so vigorously that we had to bring forward Good Riddance by Green Day as the next song for physical and emotional recovery. After three and a half sets, an inhaled three courses and that annoying scarcity of water that always seems to happen at these function things I slammed the tambourine from hand to hand span around and around in circles, truly believing I was going to die and miss the Cutest Couple award. Rookie mistake.

omg best formal eva. photo courtesy of visual accents photography

3. Preparing for uni.  
When I say 'preparing for uni' I essentially mean walking up and down in my room shaking my hands around both marvelling at the notion of beginning my dream course and swallowing back vomit at the very same idea. I guess with any successful acquirement of any great desire comes the inherent belief that it was some kind of mistake. Or, that even if it wasn't a mistake I will react so strangely/badly to this new world that I will ultimately fail. Fail this course = fail life = work at chain supermarket forever = get married to some guy = take kids to school and swimming lessons and to get haircuts = get old = die. Rationality isn't one of my strong points I guess. It could happen! 


And like the fourth one you already are aware of how much I dig the Bradys so I'll leave it here bye bye

Unaided ears like mine

I spent a higher ratio of my time with old people today than normal. I went to gym early, which I usually hate doing; I have no 'gym friends' and personally would prefer to keep it that way - and at 8am in the morning all the pensioners are down there doing like half a kilometre an hour on the treadmill while complaining loudly about the public health system to anyone who will listen, especially unaided ears like mine. So while I'm festering in my own sweat in my little gym shorts these old ladies are giving me a taster of what I have to look forward to in my old age: a life of doctors waiting rooms, Millers change rooms and dining rooms eating and drinking away my retirement with a bad hip and a thousand cats. 


Next up was the doctors, waiting moodily with my arms across over my body in a lame attempt to keep the germs that survive on the magazines from 1999 out of my system. Old people come and go, limping and wheezing and holding xrays to the window as they wait to hear the news about their bung so-and-so. Doctors oozing with smarm worm their way through their patients with enough 'sweeties' and 'darlin's' to make me gag and receptionists raise their voices politely to the ancient couple opposite me who pay no attention. On the other end of the spectrum, and the room, there are two small children, playing with the lame collection of plastic toys in a wicker basket in the corner with blatant disregard for the hygiene of the mangy things while their mother tries in vain to hold their attention with a tattered picture book. A little girl points at me and I hate everything and everyone, right down to the smell of antiseptic hand wash and the perfect blow wave on the head of the 40-something receptionist. 


I think that I was born old. Not in a cool way either like Benjamin Button but in the way that I have all the meticulousness and anxieties of old age but in the body and decisions of a teenager. And I feel all the short circuits in my head causing problems but the young lady in me can't reconcile with the old one and I keep moving with the same idea like some kind of mantra.

All I know is, I'm lost without you

I saw a tiny dead bird when I was running and all I could think was how pretty it would look in my hair. I am the worst person ever. 

Please don't talk about murder while I'm eating

I like the idea of catching the LAST TRAIN. Like, where I live, if you go into town of an evening the trains stop running at a certain time and if you don't get on the LAST TRAIN back home you either have to spring for a cab (pricey) or sleep in the gutter (risky) or stay out til the FIRST TRAIN (rock n roll!). The last train has your shady characters but the thing is, every time I've caught it recently I've been with the people I love, and like a child or a dog I tend to associate good feelings with things and places. There's also an element of danger in the LAST TRAIN that dorky types like me gravitate towards; because if you miss the last train, it's very much not ideal - but there are ways around it. Risky, but safe risky! 


So while I sit here reminiscing while watching this I can't help but think what a funny life this is. I guess I'm really feeling the strange disconnection from the old life I used to lead which revolved around school, getting work done and trying to fit music in anywhere it would fit. Now everything I am can be dedicated to the things I love to do, and to the people I love the most. Suddenly it's like I'm allowed to be who I want to be but I'm not quite sure who that is yet. 


Anyway this is all existential generic angsty crap that you can get a dime a dozen on Tumblr if it so pleases you. Talking about school I'm meant to be going back there in a few days to get an award or something and it's terrible but I simply must find an outfit that screams how together I am and how successful when really all I do is drink 2 for $5 bottles of wine and put the 'SAD SONGS' playlist on my iTunes on repeat and dye my friend's hair (see below) and mostly play my piano in my undies. 

But I guess it's summer now and soon enough I'll be writing and playing at SCHOOL, EVERY DAY and this will soon enough be every part of me just like I want. Now is the time to be stupid I guess and I spend a LOT of my time being stupid. So NOW I'm going to teach myself some of The Pip's dance moves from the above link and force the band to do them with me. And like, that's not stupid, that's productive and conducive to our development as a band. Right?