Wednesday, March 25, 2009

seventeen crushes crushed into one





Someone close to me died unexpectedly and it got me thinking about death, about life. How fragile and how short it is -though at times it feels incredibly long. How fleeing it is, how random, and yet how lovely.I always thought I had a very fucked way of looking at death, a fucked up way of dealing with it. I didn't. I always feel that people who have died just sort of go on a permanent vacation and they're just not around.

Not dead. Call it denial, call it whatever you'd like, but I guess it is the way my own self-defense mechanism works in order to help me deal, in order for me to be strong for the people around me, and I usually become that person -the "strong-asshole-who-everyone-thinks-is-an-insensitive-fuck", I'm the one who always grieves alone, and I do. As I stood inside a church today, it finally hit me. I never really feel that bad for the person who passes away, I don't feel bad at all actually.
I feel bad for those around me, those alive who suffer. I cried, and not sobbed, tears rolled down my face as I stared at that void in that big room with the smell of incense and I felt such an emptiness, I felt powerless -which to me is by far the worst feeling to be felt. How I wished I could heal their pain, how I wish a word, a smile, a hug, a shoulder to cry on, could take it all away. But there I was, absolutely fucking powerless. As every one of my tears rolled down my cheeks I wish I could pull them back into my eye socket, like a vacuum, like crying in reverse, and every drop was a reminder of that "powerlessness".

Every time I felt them fall, I thought they were mocking me, for there was nothing I could do. I don't want to bring people back from the dead, I know that to die is to have lived. All I want is to take their pain away somehow, but then again to feel pain is also to live. It's all part of it, and it just simply comes with the territory. I saw raw emotion, it was palpable -incredibly sad, and yet beautiful.
I saw a mother who lost a child, and I don't have children, but loosing one has got to be... there just simply isn't a word to describe it, there just simply isn't one. I saw raw pain, it was real and in the middle of it all I saw love, the most beautiful kind.

The irony of it all I thought, to come to grieve a deceased to simply reassure myself that love is just as real as the pain. To have shared, to have lived, to have laughed, to have loved and to be loved in return makes it all worth it.

I had to go there to be able to say I need to enjoy my life more, I need to share more, I want to laugh, I want to smile to strangers on the street, I want to hug a friend, I want to taste some food, I want to smell a flower, I want to dance, I want to sing, I want to cry and not feel sad, I want to cry simply because I am happy, no matter if tomorrow never comes, I feel happy now.
This moment is unique and by the time I'm done writing this, it will be gone.

It is that special. I'm not a religious person -at all. Faith is something I guess I just don't have much of, but I do believe that somehow, that soul is somewhere better. I don't think, I can NOT think "This is it for them". There's got to be something after this, I wonder -not wonder, I believe

Monday, March 23, 2009

bird of pray







"I am visited by a recurring image of myself as a frog in a witch's cauldron, surrounded by baby carrots and other vegetables, splashing around in the gradually boiling water, unmindful of the fact that I am slowly becoming… soup."



Today was an awkward day, from the first thing I did -I read, to my sitting here in front of the computer screen with my fingertips on the keyboard with an incredible urge… to write. Today I have come full circle –from dawn 'til dusk and in between, many thoughts and many dreams. Much analyzing to sort out the confusion of it all or simply to confuse what I fear is too clear?
What am I searching for? I ask myself constantly. I am a fucking emotional nomad. I search, I find, I exhaust, I bore, I move, I search, I find, I fear, I feel, I ran away, and find again, I simply move, keep moving, I must keep moving. Why? I ask. I was always comfortable with my feelings about it all. I used to think I wasn't afraid to feel… and suddenly, here I am, fucking fleeing. I am a fugitive of my own feelings…How fucked up!

The thing is, I feel like I am ultimately searching for the pot of gold a the end of the rainbow (interesting choice of words), but it's true, I'm looking for that thing we tend to always build our hopes and fucking dreams on… and little by little I am realizing that I am searching for the ideal, but is it all a fucking fantasy? Is it? (I've got to figure it out!) When I'm getting so close, so close I can almost be blinded by the gold –the fucking jackpot, the rainbow itself vanishes taking everything with it. I wish I had a map, a compass, a watch, and a timeframe. I wish to be armed with all the equipment I need for this very cruel and tedious quest, but I don't.
I am so tired, I won't lie. The odds are definitely against the person who searches. But I am that explorer, and my life is the land in which I'm searching. I'm beginning to think, I simply love the quest, that tiring fucking quest –and I just don't want to admit it.

When I ask my friends, my fellow explorers, since we all seem to be looking for the same thing, I figure we could compare notes, but more often than not they look confused, more so than me and I give that weird laughter, not the one you give when someone makes a joke, no, not that one. Not the something-is-funny-I'm-honestly-laughing laughter, I give the is-it-just-me-or-are-we-living-in-opposite-worlds? laughter and move along to the next topic. Apparently, the pot of gold is real to me and no one else. I just don't want to end like Columbus, dying not knowing I found more than I was looking for.
It's hard sailing against the ocean's tide. It's manageable for now, with my raft still in view of the shore. I wonder if the day will come where I'm no longer in view. I fear the day when I'll be too far away… Maybe it's like a mirage of an oasis in the middle of the desert, am I craving it so bad? I'm so afraid. I fear I'm so desperate, I may have hallucinated the whole thing. And then again I see a smile, and in the depths of those eyes I see the pot, the pot of gold. I put on my boots, and keep moving, I must keep moving.

I find a place to eat, and then I read the disclaimer…

"THIS IS A GREAT FUCKING PLACE, THE COOK IS A REAL CUNT AND THERE ARE BOOGERS IN THE SOUP. WE EAT HERE EVERY DAY."

(The irony of my world)

I am finally a perspicacious explorer. Love is just an ocean away, one day I'll see another shore, and make it to the end of the rainbow, and that pot will be as real as all of the seven colors I see and follow. I have to believe it will there waiting to be found, waiting for me to find it. I will find it, I will. I now see it all, and understand


yours in chirst

Sunday, March 22, 2009

why i feel like a pea drench in the soup of life




I have to confess I loathe my generation [I was born in 1990] and have always looked to people older than me for solace; and now that I have grown older I acknowledge the younger generation is one to be reckoned with. Its just most people born between January 1983 and December 1990 are just a waste of time. Of course there are expectations, ive got friends of my age group, but well, lets not be picky, shall we? I’m here to make a point. See I’ve been thru different social contexts, from French provincial suburban west end types to “hip & Trendy” Birdy Num Num” boredom types and ive come to the ultimate conclusion that something wrong happened.

Too young to be baby boomers, first-time punks, provos, situationists, fluxus, punks, new wavers or whatever, we grew up in the worst decade ever, the 80’s, only to enter and even lamer decade, the 90’s. my “ge-ge-generation” is just a watered down version of the previous one, with more political correctness and conservatism disguised as pseudo-transgressism added to the mix.
Lets get more precise – my main trouble came with my current and relative recent place of residence, my Brisbane generation, I am being raised in the post-discriminate utopia that everybody was born equally-talented as an artist and fashion designer. When did this shit happen – im sorry Brisbane I love but for the sake your and baby Jesus’ mental health I need you to realise just because your under 30 or have a bob hair cut dose not give u the right to call yourself and artist. Kay?

I still remain positive through all this however although I do believe that the sooner QAG’s community art program dies in a car crash so horrific it causes a ban on all motor vehicles the happier art will be. Im all for helping the little man, unless that little man is missing his left arm and right foot which in turn is compelling him to create art.
Again I am really positive about people who were teenagers through the 80’s, they have far more style and sharpness than the bleak outlook for those assigned to my crew. Admittedly their music is a little over hyped and not the most aesthetically pleasing.... .....but all the same if you were looking trouble and your about 19 enjoy Radiohead, Bjork and Camille. You came to the right place.

Yours in Christ