did anyone ever tell you how beautiful you look

when you’re looking for what’s beautiful in someone else?

it’s been a v. long day & i never like the end of days much – i always feel somewhat hurried and distracted, making mental lists in my mind about what else i want to do. i like to experiment with different places & change of scenery, because sometimes familiarity breeds contempt, even with places. (but of course in retrospect you always remember things with a sense of nostalgia. maybe less so with generic spots like shopping centres). i think i need to let go of my ‘to-do’ list & just do things on a whim, even if for the thousandth time. i really need to relaxxxxxxxx

ideally, i wouldn’t stress my mind out. even during the holidays. maybe that’s why i’m q. excited about Tasmania – because my mum’s the one figuring out the itinerary. i don’t even have to think!

now that’s a happy thought.

Would you go to the bottom of a deep, dry well?

dreams.jpg

Today I decided to look at your face, listen to your words wholeheartedly, and found myself catching the contagion of your joy. Most times I easily dismiss the notion of positive-thinking, because it really does sound like a load of hogwash. As if saying to yourself Be Happy repeatedly will bring love, joy, peace, happiness! But I suppose Descartes’ supposition, ‘I think, therefore I am’ has a ring of truth to it, because action changes with perception. There was a popular song playing on the radio today at work, about the lives’ of others not necessarily being better than the one you’re leading. And I suppose it strikes close to home, in that contentment starts now, and not tomorrow. I have to keep reminding myself I have the freedom to do anything I want, that I am not locked behind a life of bars, of restricted movement, of being subjected to constant injustice. And I can use this freedom, to run and dance for justice and make someone’s life a little bit happier. I think I can learn a lot from people who do not have what I have, but having what I do not have. Aren’t we living for more than our little hearts? I mean, who do we think we are to squander this time, this life?

No matter how sad you are, there is always a sense of joy behind the tears (the rainbow behind the rain?). And while you didn’t say anything particularly profound today, being in your presence lifted my spirits. I wonder why I don’t always listen more closely to you, instead brushing away precious time spent with you thoughtlessly. We always think there is more time. But what if we lose all today? Could’ve, Should’ve, Would’ve. C’s remarked stung, but I’m learning from him to appreciate the people I have around me now (not later) and to learn about their hearts – what makes it tickle and what makes it shiver.

I watched you walked away, and realised your spirit makes a difference. I want to be that sort of person, you know? To be more than idealistic, to dream beyond the horizon and not be disappointed even though life doesn’t always turn out the way I want it to, and people don’t become who I expect them to be. I don’t want to stay cloaked in ‘realism’ forever. It’s just a euphemism for pessimism.

I think that is a very, very good plan

“I thought she spoke of your having some plan of going round the world.”

“I’m rather ashamed of my plans; I make a new one every day.”

“I don’t see why you should be ashamed; it’s the greatest of pleasures.”

“It seems frivolous, I think,” said Isabel. “One ought to choose something very deliberately, and be faithful to that.”

“By that rule then, I’ve not been frivolous.”

“Have you never made plans?”

“Yes, I made one years ago, and I’m acting on it to-day.”

“It must have been a very pleasant one,” Isabel permitted herself to observe.

“It was very simple. It was to be as quiet as possible.”

“As quiet?” the girl repeated.

“Not to worry–not to strive nor struggle. To resign myself. To be content with little.”

– – Chapter 24, Portrait of a Lady, Henry James

hello, stranger

Orangada
(photo by velco)

Melbourne, the city so profoundly and superficially you

I saw you the other day. It was a nice day, I was out and about, walking in the city, getting on and off trams, going into shops, sitting on a bench. It was the kind of day when every face that passed came from somewhere, was going somewhere else, no longer a mask but a personality. It was the kind of day when the light was kind, and the breeze was sugary, and there was time for looking, as I waited for a tram, as I walked in the park, as I passed you in the street.

You were loudly hailing a man in a bear suit in Bourke Street Mall, flinging your arms around his sagging velvety waist, screaming happily, because it was a beautiful day and your spirits were high and you’d just had a call from the boy you like. You were riding your bike down St Kilda Road, sunglasses on, intent only on the zing of asphalt beneath the wheel, thinking of getting home and ringing your best mate and having that beer. You were falling asleep on the tram to Smith Street, your hat pulled low, your teeth not aching for once, the drugs soft in your veins. You were doing your homework on Platform 6 at Flinders Street Station, frowning. You were paused on the corner opposite Parliament House, to look at the clouds rising above the facade. You were begging for change outside St Paul’s. You were kissing your girlfriend in the Botanical Gardens, down by the lake, the whole afternoon ahead of you, her shoulders so crushable under your hands. You were buying poetry in the bookshop, wondering if $34.95 was too much to pay for something so beautiful but so brief.

In the ladies’ lounge in Myer I saw you rubbing your sore feet. You and your friends were taking up the whole footpath in Russell Street and everyone who passed you was annoyed, and you didn’t even notice. You were surreptitiously checking your breath before you went into an office block for a meeting. A man’s shirt in the window of a shop in Little Collins caught your eye, and but you remembered that he broke up with you last week, and there will be no more gift-giving, and you hastened on. You were reading a script in a cafe in Degraves Lane, hoping someone would notice. In Elizabeth Street you were stomping down past the convenience stores and the accessories stores and the mobile-phone stores and the hair-product stores, full of rubbish you don’t need, hating all of them and hating everyone who was getting in your way, because the whole day had been awful and you really just wanted to go home and take your pill. You were on your way to a hotel to see your lover, running late and hot in your business suit, hoping she wouldn’t mind. You were missing your brother, still in the village on the other side of the world, wondering what he’d make of a place like this, hoping you’ll get to show him one day when he saves enough money, when the paperwork is cleared. Because Melbourne is a wonderful city, and there is so much to see.

The buildings are so tall and fine, or crumbling and concrete and ugly, and the streets are easy to learn, and in the shops you can buy the riches of all the world, and here are thousands of people, your people, each one of them a capsule of thought and memory, all of them perfectly fitted into this bubble of a city between sea and hills, and though some of them don’t know where they’re going next, they will arrive there nonetheless.

I heard you say to your mate, the two of you in tracksuits and runners, swaggering down Swanston Street, “Nah, mate, nah, I wasn’t fucking rebuking you.” I heard you say, unsmiling, leaning over a cafe table to your boyfriend, both of you beautiful young men, “Do you really want to know?” I heard you tell your friend, “That’s the best thing, isn’t it. A cup of tea. A cup of tea and a fried egg. Beautiful.” I heard you whisper on the phone, “Don’t be like that.”

You were sitting on a bench, watching the crowds. Every song that came up on on your music player was perfect, and the world was bevelled with golden sunshine at the end of the afternoon. You watched everything. One person scowled at you; another smiled. Hello, you thought. Hello there.

– Kate Holden (The Age, 06/10/07)

I’d rather watch paint dry than write this essay

I’ve been on a hiatus for a while, because sometimes there’s a need to live life sans words.

Plus, I think less these days.

I’m just posting now to write that because I have an essay due today at 4pm. It’s 1:21am now.

Le sigh!!!

I’m dreaming of quaint escapades

Sarah Blasko is gorgeous and nutty with the best dance moves in the world.

maybe we are more than just atoms

why-would-i.jpg
(photo by romanlily)

and maybe
just maybe
us trying to make sense of things
with formulas and theories
isn’t helping

because beautiful arguments
no matter how eloquent they sound –
cosmo, onto, teleo
– can’t explain the finer details
the nuances
the lives we lead and
what this is really all about


If you know my name

I would appreciate the occasional effort
because love is constant
even when you cannot feel it
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Here's something for the records:
snippets of my unstructured thoughts,
nonsensical rants and grunts
and the occasional snapshot

I like to think I'm consistent,
but it's hard to stick to commitments

If you find something you like,
it's probably not mine
Everything is derivative - I just try too hard.

Maybe it’s just nonsensical