neglected

conference in melbourne, tedious rashed affliction, uni work, etc etc.  this makes me tired, and takes away the things i feel like i could put in here.


i'd like to say that words were the best of me, but i don't know what best means.  i tend to think my bookshelf was/is; it's built and shaped and molded with just the right number of cracking fissures to make it charming, and enough solidity to keep it standing.  if i were to introduce myself somehow, i would do it with my books - sweeping arm around them, polishing them, leaving them glistening.  it's cleaner than i am, it's more of who i would like to be. there is an element of concealment i've never be able to manage.  a 'mystery', a sort of complexity, rather than a stripped heart on sleeve bluntness that i wield like a clumsy sword.

i am fantasising about making my apartment beautiful. i want to grow potatoes.  i know, they are cheap, but i would love to do it, dig them up and get the dirt under my nails.  there are little paper lights in the loungeroom, and i want to hang them from my walls.  i want them draped and sagging around the apartment.

there is a constant push pull inside of me. the gentleness i wish i could have, the slightness, the wider eyed beauty, the reaching out, and a butterfly sitting on my fingers and a pause, and a mysterious smile, and i remain like that, an enigma, cats resting on my lap, a puzzle to be solved,  and yet, and yet, i end up being this over inflated flesh to be taken at will that races off and feeds it to anyone.  and i don't know if i want to be either, or if i can be either.  i feel like the 'dance drink screw' refrain of common people in my head, dance drink screw, dance drink screw, round and around like horses on a carousel rising and falling.  and then i try and pull back to control it, because i just don't want to sleep alone anymore, and i want honeysuckle and free roaming bunnies, and drawings of botanical illustrations made into wall paper, and ahh shit i don't even believe in anymore.  and i'm afraid of the dark without you next to me, i thought, and then i opened my eyes, and i don't want to be a pretty girl, a maiden fair, because i an not a pretty girl, and i'll never be like that, no matter how many muscles i pull trying to fit into the sweet little floral dress.

i don't know. enacting whatever parody of self i want to take out to play confuses me. it's a game, a puzzle, and i have no sense of how to fit together some image that will move me anywhere, or if i should be 'genuine' or if it's even possible to be genuine.

if i could roll myself back to a point before i became, well, filthy, would i?  it's not that long ago really that i'd never taken drugs, or had sex outside of a loving relationship.  it's a matter of a few years that i pushed the skin i thought i was in out, and reformed myself into a parody of the narrow line i used to be.  and you can't quite go back. i can't sew the marriages back together, or pull memories from night after night after night in alleys and goonbags and up trees and down streets and in the rain, and i would not trade this filth for the world because i love it. it feeds me more than the cottage does, because it takes me away. 

in other news, i found exciting cider, that tastes like strawberry, and i have a blog about being a librarian that even i can't bring myself to read.