All of the Dreams

This is an explanation that I hope will hold for months and months if need be. I really appreciate this blog and it’s stupid url, loosely taken from D.H. Lawrence because when I started it five years ago I was in a D.H. Lawrence kinda mood.  I will say, a lot has changed. I work full-time. I write every day, but lack of time means it’s usually just day-to-day journal entries of wandering thoughts. I’ve been listening to a lot of music, returning to Lorde’s Melodrama often because OF COURSE. And there’s comfort there, too. Here, with the lyric, “All of the dreams that get harder.” Time management is hard. I never thought time management, of all things, would be such a burden. But I am writing, and when I write something decent I keep it for myself in the hopes one day someone will buy it. It’s been fun, keeping things private.

At the start of my current journal, which is about a week away from being full, are these words from Kurt Vonnegut: “Nobody will stop you from creating. Do it tonight. Do it tomorrow. That is the way to make your soul grow – whether there is a market for it or not! The kick of creation is the act of creating, not anything that happens afterward. I would tell all of you watching this screen: Before you go to bed, write a four line poem. Make it as good as you can. Don’t show it to anybody. Put it where nobody will find it. And you will discover that you have your reward.”

I’m glad those words ended up meaning something. I was worried, when I wrote it, what my motive was. I was nineteen. I’m twenty-one now, the journal is almost done. I was wondering whose words would start my next. I chose Tavi Gevinson, because lately I’ve been looking around instead of up, and people my own age have become bigger and better inspirations than others. In her Infinity Diaries series she says, “But something inside me conquers this nostalgia, this desire to miss: the simple knowledge that these feelings will happen again. New feelings will happen, if I let them. As Kenny said of doing the same thing on stage every night, you never actually do, because you’ve never been alive today before, and the same goes for tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.” I’m curious to find out what this will mean to me in two, three-years time.

Lover Lover

I say I like honesty, I tell myself

I like honesty because

I keep making friends with lovers

with one-sided feelings

 

I know how those go, I am a girl

who lies on her bed in the daytime

earbuds in, staring into the middle-distance

watching a second life play out like

shadows on a sheet during a storm

 

I am a cautious person in life and

in imagination, knowing all too well

how the two fool around with one another

and at sixteen, how a thing between a boy

and me can turn my insides out

 

here I should admit, I am unlikely

and in all my state I attract people

who are all smiles and false impressions

who are my friends, my very best friends

until they admit otherwise

 

I can be bitter, even at my calmest

when I am told over the Internet

from age sixteen onwards, that I am loved

in a way I do not reciprocate

and that a relationship I thought

—dangerously—was equal, was not

 

I have lost too many people

to feelings felt, words unsaid for months

and months and months, amongst it all

I’m rarely spoken to in person

about feelings so personal

they ought to inspire intimacy

 

this is where I leave most, because

I haven’t been met with the chance

to share feelings, but instead have been stuck

receiving them, dealing with them

addressing them

 

if I am that girl for you, on the bed, daytime

through the blinds and eyes staring off

at something an arm’s length away

then you will know, because I will tell you

 

 

These Are Some of the Things You Missed

There are songs I choose just for the mornings

to dance to as the sun throws shapes

vertical across the carpet and horizontal

across the bookshelf

I’m grateful between 8AM and 9AM when

the shower is warm and the light is muddled

through the window at just the right angle—

a new kind of feeling to wake up from the night’s

sleep with the covers curled between my knees:

And here, now, wondering about how

the first thing I think

when I wake up is blue

Orphic Idiot

singing   from  the  other  side   of  the   River    Styx

the   words   lost  over  the  water, your  back turned,

my   ankle  dotted   with  blood,  your  neck strained

against  song,  so  i  sing:  “on  thee   the  portion of

our  time  depends, whose  absence  lengthens  life,

whose                          presence                            ends.”

you   look   back,   you   look   back,  you looked back.

i    crouch  at  the  bank  and let my dress dip into the

water. you   kneel   in  the  sand,  hands  behind  you,

eyes  forward.  you  sing  as  the sword comes down,

and   you  sing  as   you  cross  the river, and you sing

as    Hades’   bottom    lip   trembles,  as   i   hold  you,

singing   from   the   same   side   of    the  River  Styx.

 

Hello, World!

A portrait of the writer as a young clown

I’ve been learning to code for the past 3 months – nothing major, nothing spectacular. But now I know that the utterly simple exclamation of Hello, World! is enough to induct a newbie into the world of programming. I’m saying this now because I realise I’ve never really spoken to any of you directly – ever – but here you are: still and unflinching, dark and mysterious. You fascinate me. I recently started an internship producing radio at the ABC, and my presenter says that word a lot – this is fascinating, it’s great to talk to you.

So, then. Who are you? How are you going? Do you have any pets? A cat or a dog or a gecko?

I’m opening up to you in hopes this rambling display of openness and trust will inspire some back-and-forth. Tonight I spoke to a curator at a museum for the morbid, last week to a woman directing the Future Library art project, the week before that to a neuroscientist. I like talking with people, so it’s probably time I start a conversation on here. Here, where my teenage writing matures. Where the evidence of my evolution sits under glass.

These are the coordinates of my life right now, as it stands: I hurt my ankle a few weeks back tumbling, and I’ve been staying up until 6.00am for the Olympic gymnastics – all the while wishing I could jump again. I still prefer sunsets over sunrises. I’m in the final hour of the audiobook The Art of Asking by Amanda Palmer. I’ve got the business card of a NASA engineer sitting in front of me on my desk, next to my lapel pins shaped like stars. It’s 1.04am and I have an important email to send in the morning. I’m in my final semester of university. There’s a new This American Life episode waiting for me, but I can’t bring myself to listen to anything titled My Summer Self while I’m still wearing finger-less gloves. I ordered six second-hand Ray Bradbury paperbacks this afternoon. I still don’t know if writing things down is helpful for me or for anyone else. I’m going to sit in the sun tomorrow and listen to Neutral Milk Hotel and the soundtrack to In the Heights. I’m not going to check this for spelling errors.

My reasoning behind all of these sentences of admittance, is an intersection of occurrences. Last night I wrote a poem to my favourite author, who I’ve posthumously adopted as an unwitting mentor. I don’t think it made sense, not unless you’re someone who is well-versed in Fahrenheit 451 trivia or the tales of Dandelion Wine. But when I posted it on here, on my scribbled home, it got half a dozen likes. I wonder too much – too much not to ask – whether anyone actually reads anything on here. I need to know if you have, and I truly want to know what you think.

This is an offering – a short but concise map to my life right now. It’s a gesture. I’m letting you know that you have access to parts of my life, the same as you do my writing. And to let you know that it would be great to talk to you about fascinating things.

 

Stuff Your Eyes with Wonder

so every other week I go to this second-hand bookstore and I

head to sci-fi/fantasy/horror because I know where the letters line up

and where you are, or where you should be, at eye height between

the a’s and c’s.

 

yesterday I went to the counter to ask a woman if you were hiding

somewhere else amongst the stacks, maybe you had snuck somewhere

beneath the bookshelf where they stock their extra paperbacks

just out of reach.

 

I remember rummaging my father’s bookshelf looking for you

and all I found was your preface in a 1989 anthology titled Foundation’s Friends

and you said Isaac was in the mountain-moving business, but he did not move

but eat them.

 

and when a friend handed you to me in a library and you told me

I would pay by the half-hour for my words and I would be sleepless

but if someone didn’t see value in my hunger I should pick up my dinosaurs

and leave the room.

 

and you taught me that new tennis shoes make a summer endless,  that

rain can kill if you let it, that stars are addictive when you have a rocket

full of fuel and a home to crash into, with dandelion wine to drink

in the basement.

 

the woman said she would call me when someone else gives you up, that

they don’t print many of you anymore and so maybe you are on Mars with Poe

waiting for everyone to forget you, so I want to tell you that I’m pacing

back and forth in the dust.

 

I remember, I remember, I remember something else. What is it?

Yes, yes, part of Ecclesiastes. Part of Ecclesiastes and Revelation. Part of

that book, part of it, quick now, quick before it gets away,

before the wind dies.

 

This poem is in response to my favourite short story, The Man Who Forgot Ray Bradbury by Neil Gaiman, and to my favourite author.

Inhale and Exhale: Legally Blonde the Essay

Do you ever have those moments where your breathing mutates? Because it happens to me a lot. My breathing turns from a handy automatic function to a process I’m aware of—instead of just breathing, I’m inhaling and exhaling and inhaling and exhaling. My lungs don’t work on their own. I have to force them. If I don’t I’ll collapse. Fall into a heap. But inhaling and exhaling stretches past my lungs, my intercostal muscles, my ribs, and my diaphragm. Wherever I am: brain, nervous system, eyes, nose, ears, mouth, tongue, hands—and whoever I am: human, girl, idiot—that person, trapped in a tangle of matter and limbs, needs to breathe too. I need to inhale the world around me and exhale my own reality.

Sometimes I can breathe OUT a whole heap of stuff, like art, fun science facts, short stories, and point of views, but other times what I really need is to breathe IN. And something what I need to breathe in, is this: Elle Woods strutting into Harvard, kicking butt, and being herself. What I need to breathe in is Legally Blonde.

At the right time Legally Blonde can be like oxygen to me—where oxygen atoms are made up of protons, electrons, and neutrons, Legally Blonde is made of uncompromised belief, unassailable femininity, and one of the best darn example of onscreen Shine Theory—the “I don’t shine if you don’t shine” approach to female friendship—to come out of the early 2000s. For a human-girl-idiot, it’s life-giving.

Read the full essay on Pop Culture Puke