And look! It has a brain.
Something rather unfortunate happened this evening and I'm not quite sure how to go about dealing with it. Frankly I'm surprised that this hasn't happened earlier, but now that it has I think I should probably figure it out.
So, the issue is my last blog post was taken as a personal message to an individual. That individual (who is probably reading this right now, hello there) decided to say certain things and draw certain conclusions based on that post. Luckily, the situation was disarmed, but it got me to thinking a few things.
First of all, what if the post had been something worse? I mean, sure, it was pretty out there in terms of content, but what if it had been one of my pieces that sounds like rape, or torture, or something equally twisted? And what if someone construed that as a personal message? Ergh. It just doesn't bear thinking of. I really should try and avoid posts that have anything to do with things that are happening in my life, even remotely. Wait...how am I supposed to do that, exactly? Which leads me to my other thought, which is are other feelings leaking into my creations? I start writing about one thing only to look over it a day, a week or a year later and have it be about something completely different. I start writing about solitude only to have it turn into a rant about sorrow. I start writing about dreams only to read back over it and see that in reality it is an attack on someone who caused me nightmares. My intention and my execution are wildly different.
So I guess I have two options. I can moderate what I post to avoid trouble, or I can carry on shooting my mouth off without a care for anything. Second option's a hell of a lot more interesting, I suppose.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Missing Missive
You do not love me.
That's fine, because I don't love you. I don't think I could. It's because you're unloveable, or because I won't let myself love you - probably both.
Which doesn't quite explain why I'm injured that you don't, or won't, or can't.
I was asked today why I even bothered, if I knew it was pointless. The answer to that is difficult. In a fit of melodrama I replied that everything in my life was meaningless, but I don't think its that. I think I did it because I want to claim someone. It doesn't have to be you - in fact, its quite apparent you were a poor choice. I just needed to claim somebody for my own - property, if you will. I wanted to make you beg, make you desire me, have you at my whim. Perhaps I decieved myself into believing that was as good as having you love me. All of the benefits of love without the regard. All of the manipulation with none of the trust. I'm not sure why I want that. Part of me knows that such a desire is pathetic - almost childish. I cannot love or be loved, so I'll take ownership of someone instead, that'll fix it!
Even knowing that it is childish, I still want it. I want you as property. I won't apologise and I won't stop attempting to own you. If I fail, it's probably for the best, for both of us. If I don't, at least we'll have some fun along the way.
Or I can break this cycle - not by loving, but by removing the need for it.
By the time you recieve this message, I will be beyond reach. I will no longer have a need for regard. I will ignore my stomach if I hunger. I will still my sweating if I am agitated. I will tear off my genitals if I am aroused. By the time this message reaches you, I will be perfect.
I only hope that this reaches you quickly enough for you to stop me.
D.
That's fine, because I don't love you. I don't think I could. It's because you're unloveable, or because I won't let myself love you - probably both.
Which doesn't quite explain why I'm injured that you don't, or won't, or can't.
I was asked today why I even bothered, if I knew it was pointless. The answer to that is difficult. In a fit of melodrama I replied that everything in my life was meaningless, but I don't think its that. I think I did it because I want to claim someone. It doesn't have to be you - in fact, its quite apparent you were a poor choice. I just needed to claim somebody for my own - property, if you will. I wanted to make you beg, make you desire me, have you at my whim. Perhaps I decieved myself into believing that was as good as having you love me. All of the benefits of love without the regard. All of the manipulation with none of the trust. I'm not sure why I want that. Part of me knows that such a desire is pathetic - almost childish. I cannot love or be loved, so I'll take ownership of someone instead, that'll fix it!
Even knowing that it is childish, I still want it. I want you as property. I won't apologise and I won't stop attempting to own you. If I fail, it's probably for the best, for both of us. If I don't, at least we'll have some fun along the way.
Or I can break this cycle - not by loving, but by removing the need for it.
By the time you recieve this message, I will be beyond reach. I will no longer have a need for regard. I will ignore my stomach if I hunger. I will still my sweating if I am agitated. I will tear off my genitals if I am aroused. By the time this message reaches you, I will be perfect.
I only hope that this reaches you quickly enough for you to stop me.
D.
Monday, January 24, 2011
We left then, you and I.
While the night was spread against the sky,
We refused to stop and wonder why.
We went down the dark and twisted street,
Our hearts bestirred, by that drummer's beat.
That roiled, twisted, and possessed our feet.
Anything additional here wouldn't feel right.
It's past midnight and I've spent the last two days in the city. One day meeting an old, old friend. One day meeting a new one. I met someone I want to claim and someone who has claimed me.
Not to mention I've more or less been on my feet non-stop with them both, and at least five games of DDR. I should really get a more comfortable pair of shoes.
I'm dealing in trivialities again. I suppose that's safer then when I try to deal with anything deeper. A deep thought is a loaded gun, sometimes. Or a faulty gas main.
I'll stop here. I told myself I would write before I passed out to stop myself dreaming weird. Here's hoping it works!
While the night was spread against the sky,
We refused to stop and wonder why.
We went down the dark and twisted street,
Our hearts bestirred, by that drummer's beat.
That roiled, twisted, and possessed our feet.
Anything additional here wouldn't feel right.
It's past midnight and I've spent the last two days in the city. One day meeting an old, old friend. One day meeting a new one. I met someone I want to claim and someone who has claimed me.
Not to mention I've more or less been on my feet non-stop with them both, and at least five games of DDR. I should really get a more comfortable pair of shoes.
I'm dealing in trivialities again. I suppose that's safer then when I try to deal with anything deeper. A deep thought is a loaded gun, sometimes. Or a faulty gas main.
I'll stop here. I told myself I would write before I passed out to stop myself dreaming weird. Here's hoping it works!
Friday, January 21, 2011
Life She Surrenders
That night, I felt like I'd become something treasured - different.
I'm a bit of a mess at the moment, mentally. Don't get me wrong, not one of those OH GOD WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE ALL IS LOST THE HOUSE OF CARDS IS TUMBLING DOWN messes. I'm not in a high angst posting mood. Rather, I'm disorganised. I'm finding it hard to think. In fact I don't want to think. It's one of those 'Oh, my brain is doing that thing again, what a bore' messes.
And there is a boy offering to tell me a story, and a girl who is too tired to write about her own death, and a childhood cartoon being horrendously, horrendously destroyed, and I'm not quite sure what to make of the whole mess. So I'm sitting here, in the dark - well, the light is on.
Let me fix that.
Okay, now I'm sitting here in the dark listening to Flyleaf. This is becoming a recurring habit. Flyleaf has replaced sex. It has been about two weeks since I last had any sexual contact. I am unsure how I am coping. Tomorrow I am going to my university and deciding how the rest of my life is going to be, forever. I am again unsure how I am coping. In fact I'm not really sure of anything anymore, so I'm going to write and then probably go to bed and hope that this malaise passes. Oh, angst! I'm laughable some nights. Anyway. Writing stuff. Flyleaf lyrics keep seeping in. Oh well, let's start with one.
Her death has been swallowed up by life.
She was someone's daughter,
She was someone's wife.
The world keeps on turning as she turns in her grave,
The tide hugs the shore and her voice is the waves.
From the moment of birth, from the moment to rise,
She knew of her death, and she knew it was lies.
For what hope for the rot when grain grows in sun?
Rising to life, her new life has begun.
Her light has been swallowed up by night.
She wasn't mistaken,
But nor was she right.
She lies in the ground and her flesh fades away,
But the life she surrenders is reaching for day.
At least, so they say.
I'm a bit of a mess at the moment, mentally. Don't get me wrong, not one of those OH GOD WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE ALL IS LOST THE HOUSE OF CARDS IS TUMBLING DOWN messes. I'm not in a high angst posting mood. Rather, I'm disorganised. I'm finding it hard to think. In fact I don't want to think. It's one of those 'Oh, my brain is doing that thing again, what a bore' messes.
And there is a boy offering to tell me a story, and a girl who is too tired to write about her own death, and a childhood cartoon being horrendously, horrendously destroyed, and I'm not quite sure what to make of the whole mess. So I'm sitting here, in the dark - well, the light is on.
Let me fix that.
Okay, now I'm sitting here in the dark listening to Flyleaf. This is becoming a recurring habit. Flyleaf has replaced sex. It has been about two weeks since I last had any sexual contact. I am unsure how I am coping. Tomorrow I am going to my university and deciding how the rest of my life is going to be, forever. I am again unsure how I am coping. In fact I'm not really sure of anything anymore, so I'm going to write and then probably go to bed and hope that this malaise passes. Oh, angst! I'm laughable some nights. Anyway. Writing stuff. Flyleaf lyrics keep seeping in. Oh well, let's start with one.
Her death has been swallowed up by life.
She was someone's daughter,
She was someone's wife.
The world keeps on turning as she turns in her grave,
The tide hugs the shore and her voice is the waves.
From the moment of birth, from the moment to rise,
She knew of her death, and she knew it was lies.
For what hope for the rot when grain grows in sun?
Rising to life, her new life has begun.
Her light has been swallowed up by night.
She wasn't mistaken,
But nor was she right.
She lies in the ground and her flesh fades away,
But the life she surrenders is reaching for day.
At least, so they say.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
It Happened
It is happening now.
Yes, right now.
The only thing more scary than it not happening was it happening.
It has happened.
It is going to happen.
It will happen.
It shall happen.
It must happen.
There is nothing you can do to stop it.
There is nothing you can do to change it.
It is part of who you were.
It is part of who you are.
It is part of what you will be.
It is bound to you, and you are bound to it.
All you can do now is cower before it,
Embrace it,
Defy and deny it,
As it happens, and has happened, and shall happen.
There is no future where it has not happened.
There is no past where it will not happen, eventually.
There is no present where it is not happening.
There is just you, and it.
And it is going to happen with you.
And you are going to happen to it.
It is happening.
What the fuck are you going to do?
Let it happen.
Yes, right now.
The only thing more scary than it not happening was it happening.
It has happened.
It is going to happen.
It will happen.
It shall happen.
It must happen.
There is nothing you can do to stop it.
There is nothing you can do to change it.
It is part of who you were.
It is part of who you are.
It is part of what you will be.
It is bound to you, and you are bound to it.
All you can do now is cower before it,
Embrace it,
Defy and deny it,
As it happens, and has happened, and shall happen.
There is no future where it has not happened.
There is no past where it will not happen, eventually.
There is no present where it is not happening.
There is just you, and it.
And it is going to happen with you.
And you are going to happen to it.
It is happening.
What the fuck are you going to do?
Let it happen.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Snarling at the Sky
A dark room that smells of must.
A pair of tight, expensive jeans. They hang straight and beautiful off the wasted legs that they enshrine.
Banded underwear. The skin is soft there, and yet the muscle underneath is firm and unyielding. It smells good - masculine and pure. It hints of more to come. Trace the contours of the body, to the hip bones. Perfection.
A pool of water that has been allowed to stand for several days. The sun has touched it, but the ground is saturated and the water has collected in an incline. It is brackish. There are dragonflies. It will be several days before it fully evaporates, but the clouds on the horizon suggest that it will not get the opportunity. It is starting to let off an unpleasant smell.
A god that encircles the earth and saves mortals with his innocent arms. He is not beautiful. His eyes are a bloody mess - he was blinded, and recently. Looking at him is horrifying, and nobody believes the words that spill from his lips, words of love and adoration. By the time that they listen, it will be too late. The worst part is, they will be unable to bring him back to life. Those innocent arms will still and fall.
A cat on a fence. It is clearly distressed, and yet intent in visage. It stares into a house, at a blue couch coated in cat hair. The tail lashes back and forth. Every hair is on end, and yet the cat does not betray another movement. Absolute poise, absolute stillness, but for that lashing tail. The fence is tall and green. The house is in the shade of a larger house. The couch is occupied.
A pair of hands on the back of a neck. The neck is hairless, but the hands have a smattering of light hair at the knuckles. The hair on the head is black and thick. The hands tense, to pull the head down, perhaps for a kiss. Yes, for a kiss. The hands fall to the shoulders as the lips interlock. A slight shiver runs down the spine. There is a feel in the air - a release, perhaps...perhaps something more, something sadder.
An abandoned cup of tea on a shelf. The tea has long since grown cold. There are dark patches in the water, and there is no steam. The tea sits in a saucer that is coated in biscuit crumbs. The shelf has a book on it. The title is not visible, but the book is bound in red leather. There is a sense of urgency.
Your eyes, looking back at you in the mirror. There aren't any words for this.
A figure, bent by rain, shrouded in the darkness, snarling at the sky.
A pair of tight, expensive jeans. They hang straight and beautiful off the wasted legs that they enshrine.
Banded underwear. The skin is soft there, and yet the muscle underneath is firm and unyielding. It smells good - masculine and pure. It hints of more to come. Trace the contours of the body, to the hip bones. Perfection.
A pool of water that has been allowed to stand for several days. The sun has touched it, but the ground is saturated and the water has collected in an incline. It is brackish. There are dragonflies. It will be several days before it fully evaporates, but the clouds on the horizon suggest that it will not get the opportunity. It is starting to let off an unpleasant smell.
A god that encircles the earth and saves mortals with his innocent arms. He is not beautiful. His eyes are a bloody mess - he was blinded, and recently. Looking at him is horrifying, and nobody believes the words that spill from his lips, words of love and adoration. By the time that they listen, it will be too late. The worst part is, they will be unable to bring him back to life. Those innocent arms will still and fall.
A cat on a fence. It is clearly distressed, and yet intent in visage. It stares into a house, at a blue couch coated in cat hair. The tail lashes back and forth. Every hair is on end, and yet the cat does not betray another movement. Absolute poise, absolute stillness, but for that lashing tail. The fence is tall and green. The house is in the shade of a larger house. The couch is occupied.
A pair of hands on the back of a neck. The neck is hairless, but the hands have a smattering of light hair at the knuckles. The hair on the head is black and thick. The hands tense, to pull the head down, perhaps for a kiss. Yes, for a kiss. The hands fall to the shoulders as the lips interlock. A slight shiver runs down the spine. There is a feel in the air - a release, perhaps...perhaps something more, something sadder.
An abandoned cup of tea on a shelf. The tea has long since grown cold. There are dark patches in the water, and there is no steam. The tea sits in a saucer that is coated in biscuit crumbs. The shelf has a book on it. The title is not visible, but the book is bound in red leather. There is a sense of urgency.
Your eyes, looking back at you in the mirror. There aren't any words for this.
A figure, bent by rain, shrouded in the darkness, snarling at the sky.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
A Battered Journal
Entry 1
Great news, diary! I had a new idea tonight. It's a story about a little boy who dreams of hell. He has a great life and everything works out well for him and he's reasonably happy, but every night he dreams of hell. I was going to present it in sort of a fairy tale kind of way, a little dark - but hey, it could be fun! Might start work on it soon. I just haven't figured out how it'll end...
Entry 2
Not so great today, a few setbacks in reality that have made it hard to commit to writing anything down. Nothing major, just little stressful things. It's really killing my creative buzz. However, I did manage to start on that devil boy story, you know, the one I mentioned earlier? The beginning's nothing special, but I think the ending will be something to remember. Here's hoping.
Entry 3
I have no idea how I manage to work under the conditions I'm in! Petty little distractions, everywhere. It's getting harder and harder to commit to anything concrete. I'm worried my stories will start to look all schiziophrenic and unpolished. Still, with a bit of determination and good music, I'm about half way finished with the devil boy story. Ending still hasn't come to me, but I'm getting close.
Entry 4
No writing today. I couldn't bring myself to start. I tossed and turned in bed for twelve whole hours. Something is really screwing with my head - I think all this stress is giving me nightmares. Not to mention stomach pain. Still, taking a break from things was good for me. I got no sleep, but I went for a walk in the rain and got some fresh air, and that helped. Too tired to write anymore tonight.
Entry 5
Roadblocked. I didn't think it would happen, but I got to the end of the devil boy story and I couldn't think of anything! I didn't want him dying, but I knew the tone was too dark for everything to end happily...I just drew a blank. But that's okay, because I've come up with another idea! No point lingering on mistakes...especially because the dreams haven't gone away. I think I'm too emotionally invested in the devil boy story. Time for something new. My new idea is about a boy who gets a magic paintbrush, that allows him to set any emotion into a painting flawlessly. So he starts setting down things like boredom and anger and love into paintings and the people around him react to them. I have two endings planned, one tragic, one happy. Time will tell as to which one I use, I suppose.
Entry 6
I...I think I see it now. The problem with my devil boy story. It came to me in a dream, diary. I think my mind is trying to tell me something.
This magic paintbrush idea. I keep dreaming of myself with the paintbrush. In the story, the paintbrush tears away the veil between emotion and art. In my dream, I'm holding the paintbrush. If I can brush away that veil between emotion and narrative, if I can write the devil boy story without holding anything back...maybe I can finish it.
Finished the paintbrush story, by the way. I made it as a cautionary tale - the boy was drowned in a well. Some silly moral lesson about the foolishness of getting too emotionally attached. I'm not sure about it, to be honest. I'm sure any kid could see the value of such a paintbrush. Might set it aside from now, it needs work.
Entry 7 and Entry 8 appear to be missing entirely. Entry 9 is torn in half, with the bottom half visible. The lettering is jagged and unpleasant.
-imple really. Like moths to flame. I open the door, and the words just flow through. The dreams haven't stopped, but they aren't hurting either, so I'm pretty sure I'm on the right track. I just need to make sure that I don't hold anythi -
The next several pages are blackened, as if by fire.
Entry ???
so close. almost finished. i'm sure it can end with him surviving. everything in his life was good at first. he can realise that. he can realise that and go back to how things were. i'm sure of it. i have faith in the character. he'll realise that nobody can live if they don't seperate emotion from action. nobody can lie, nobody can -
The entry cuts off abruptly. The next few pages are blank.
Entry ???
can't sleep can't eat can't stop only the story only the story no time for fixing it no time for repairing it only time to end it it must end it must end it will be ended and then i'll be free of it
The last three pages in the book are browned and stained with a dried liquid. On the back cover, there is a single word scratched into the binding.
FREE
Great news, diary! I had a new idea tonight. It's a story about a little boy who dreams of hell. He has a great life and everything works out well for him and he's reasonably happy, but every night he dreams of hell. I was going to present it in sort of a fairy tale kind of way, a little dark - but hey, it could be fun! Might start work on it soon. I just haven't figured out how it'll end...
Entry 2
Not so great today, a few setbacks in reality that have made it hard to commit to writing anything down. Nothing major, just little stressful things. It's really killing my creative buzz. However, I did manage to start on that devil boy story, you know, the one I mentioned earlier? The beginning's nothing special, but I think the ending will be something to remember. Here's hoping.
Entry 3
I have no idea how I manage to work under the conditions I'm in! Petty little distractions, everywhere. It's getting harder and harder to commit to anything concrete. I'm worried my stories will start to look all schiziophrenic and unpolished. Still, with a bit of determination and good music, I'm about half way finished with the devil boy story. Ending still hasn't come to me, but I'm getting close.
Entry 4
No writing today. I couldn't bring myself to start. I tossed and turned in bed for twelve whole hours. Something is really screwing with my head - I think all this stress is giving me nightmares. Not to mention stomach pain. Still, taking a break from things was good for me. I got no sleep, but I went for a walk in the rain and got some fresh air, and that helped. Too tired to write anymore tonight.
Entry 5
Roadblocked. I didn't think it would happen, but I got to the end of the devil boy story and I couldn't think of anything! I didn't want him dying, but I knew the tone was too dark for everything to end happily...I just drew a blank. But that's okay, because I've come up with another idea! No point lingering on mistakes...especially because the dreams haven't gone away. I think I'm too emotionally invested in the devil boy story. Time for something new. My new idea is about a boy who gets a magic paintbrush, that allows him to set any emotion into a painting flawlessly. So he starts setting down things like boredom and anger and love into paintings and the people around him react to them. I have two endings planned, one tragic, one happy. Time will tell as to which one I use, I suppose.
Entry 6
I...I think I see it now. The problem with my devil boy story. It came to me in a dream, diary. I think my mind is trying to tell me something.
This magic paintbrush idea. I keep dreaming of myself with the paintbrush. In the story, the paintbrush tears away the veil between emotion and art. In my dream, I'm holding the paintbrush. If I can brush away that veil between emotion and narrative, if I can write the devil boy story without holding anything back...maybe I can finish it.
Finished the paintbrush story, by the way. I made it as a cautionary tale - the boy was drowned in a well. Some silly moral lesson about the foolishness of getting too emotionally attached. I'm not sure about it, to be honest. I'm sure any kid could see the value of such a paintbrush. Might set it aside from now, it needs work.
Entry 7 and Entry 8 appear to be missing entirely. Entry 9 is torn in half, with the bottom half visible. The lettering is jagged and unpleasant.
-imple really. Like moths to flame. I open the door, and the words just flow through. The dreams haven't stopped, but they aren't hurting either, so I'm pretty sure I'm on the right track. I just need to make sure that I don't hold anythi -
The next several pages are blackened, as if by fire.
Entry ???
so close. almost finished. i'm sure it can end with him surviving. everything in his life was good at first. he can realise that. he can realise that and go back to how things were. i'm sure of it. i have faith in the character. he'll realise that nobody can live if they don't seperate emotion from action. nobody can lie, nobody can -
The entry cuts off abruptly. The next few pages are blank.
Entry ???
can't sleep can't eat can't stop only the story only the story no time for fixing it no time for repairing it only time to end it it must end it must end it will be ended and then i'll be free of it
The last three pages in the book are browned and stained with a dried liquid. On the back cover, there is a single word scratched into the binding.
FREE
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Grindr? I hardly know her!
I'm sitting here staring at my keyboard, knowing that something wants to get out but not knowing how to let it.
It doesn't help that when I look down at the keyboard, it's only a slight tilt of the head to look at my body. Tight briefs and a pair of baggy shorts, my tuft of stomach hair, nipples (two, obviously) and my arms extended onto the desk. Yes, it's the usual view of myself from up here.
And this is going to be shockingly out of character for me to type, but I'm not satisfied with my appearance right now.
Luckily, I know why, and it isn't some stupid reason. Well, it is, but at least I can identify it and combat it. I hope.
Let's talk about Grindr, shall we? Grindr is a mobile application that effectively tracks any homosexual that is in your surrounding area. It comes up with a little picture of them, and it's basically a chat room that you carry around with you at all times that pinpoints locations. Think of it as a GPS where the G stands for gay. It's about as souldestroying as it sounds. A myriad of thirty plus men with their taglines as perverted sexual fantasies, a few younger guys desperately trying to justify being there, and of course, the 18-25 year olds who just want fucking. All the time. Nothing but it. Right now.
This application, combined with the gay youth forum I also use to augment my frankly pitiful social life here in Melbourne, construe approximately half of my human interaction. The other half is World of Warcraft. One social outlet where nothing but my appearance matters, and another social outlet where my appearance does not matter at all.
I am unsure how to cope with this utter separation. I find myself taking endless photos of myself, discarding them one after another. Pictures that would have satisfied me before are now not seen as 'good' enough - as if I am preparing bait, and the bait must be suitably appealing. I cannot fall back on my charming personality to smooth over an unfortunate physical perception - either I am seen as desireable, or I am not contacted. And, over time, the small satisfaction gained from desperate forty year old men who want my body lost appeal. I am content with my sex life - and my choice of partners; just because I haunt places full of old creeps does not mean I am fucking them - and yet I am not content with my body, and even flaunting it in front of ugly men will not prove to myself that it is enough.
This is a new and unsettling feeling for me. I hope university fixes this.
I seem to believe that university will fix everything. This cannot be good for me. Nothing works that way.
I have listened to Undenied by Portishead 57 times. This cannot be good for me either. That song is not conductive to a good mental condition.
I suppose its the lack of muscle, to be honest. I have never been one to go for muscle - in fact I usually hold muscle-bound individuals in contempt. I am not fat. I am not muscled. I simply...am, I guess. And up until now it was enough.
I will endeavour to remind myself that it is still enough.
It doesn't help that when I look down at the keyboard, it's only a slight tilt of the head to look at my body. Tight briefs and a pair of baggy shorts, my tuft of stomach hair, nipples (two, obviously) and my arms extended onto the desk. Yes, it's the usual view of myself from up here.
And this is going to be shockingly out of character for me to type, but I'm not satisfied with my appearance right now.
Luckily, I know why, and it isn't some stupid reason. Well, it is, but at least I can identify it and combat it. I hope.
Let's talk about Grindr, shall we? Grindr is a mobile application that effectively tracks any homosexual that is in your surrounding area. It comes up with a little picture of them, and it's basically a chat room that you carry around with you at all times that pinpoints locations. Think of it as a GPS where the G stands for gay. It's about as souldestroying as it sounds. A myriad of thirty plus men with their taglines as perverted sexual fantasies, a few younger guys desperately trying to justify being there, and of course, the 18-25 year olds who just want fucking. All the time. Nothing but it. Right now.
This application, combined with the gay youth forum I also use to augment my frankly pitiful social life here in Melbourne, construe approximately half of my human interaction. The other half is World of Warcraft. One social outlet where nothing but my appearance matters, and another social outlet where my appearance does not matter at all.
I am unsure how to cope with this utter separation. I find myself taking endless photos of myself, discarding them one after another. Pictures that would have satisfied me before are now not seen as 'good' enough - as if I am preparing bait, and the bait must be suitably appealing. I cannot fall back on my charming personality to smooth over an unfortunate physical perception - either I am seen as desireable, or I am not contacted. And, over time, the small satisfaction gained from desperate forty year old men who want my body lost appeal. I am content with my sex life - and my choice of partners; just because I haunt places full of old creeps does not mean I am fucking them - and yet I am not content with my body, and even flaunting it in front of ugly men will not prove to myself that it is enough.
This is a new and unsettling feeling for me. I hope university fixes this.
I seem to believe that university will fix everything. This cannot be good for me. Nothing works that way.
I have listened to Undenied by Portishead 57 times. This cannot be good for me either. That song is not conductive to a good mental condition.
I suppose its the lack of muscle, to be honest. I have never been one to go for muscle - in fact I usually hold muscle-bound individuals in contempt. I am not fat. I am not muscled. I simply...am, I guess. And up until now it was enough.
I will endeavour to remind myself that it is still enough.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Lying to our Tools
This blog is ruining me.
Before this blog, I would go into strange moods. When those moods came over me, I'd think to myself 'uh oh. Here comes a mood. Best write something'. And then this vast vista of possibility washed over me. I could work on my novel. I would write a descriptive passage. I could set pen to paper and have everything that is sitting in my head come out in a horrible tangle and just like the look of the words on the page. I could rant and rave and write big words and write small words , or I could leap to my keyboard and just see how quickly I could churn out something, anything, that eased the sense of pressure.
Now, I get a strange mood. I immediately think of how I can exploit that mood and turn it into a blog post. I write a blog post. Sometimes, this mood goes away. Sometimes it doesn't and I have to go have a wank or something and wait till I pass out and troubled sleep erases the mood for me.
For those of you with delicate sensibilites, now is the time to navigate away from my blog. After much deliberation I have decided that this medium is as good as any other to express myself - but only if I stop lying and using it as merely a showcase for things I'm happy with. I'm not going to go on and on about what my blog is now because I don't feel like it. The only thing I'm going to to continue to do is to title my posts, because Future Me would like a frame of reference, my mind being a tidy sort of mind when it comes to text.
Other then that, I'm simply going to type whatever I feel is required to release the pressure in my head. No holds barred. That means I am going to talk about sex, probably in great detail. I am going to talk about my petty wants, needs and emotions (hatred and jealousy probably featuring most strongly). I am going to rave. I am going to not make sense. I am going to be pointlessly crude. And every now and then I'll continue to make something beautiful, as apparently I seem to be able to do.
If you think that the crassness is worth the risk, feel free to keep following this blog. The only way to access it is from my MSN or my Facebook - I'm not worried that I'm going to write something that will come back to bite me on the ass later, so I'm going to stop lying to this blog and I'm going to start writing what I need to write.
It's a nice sentiment, anyway. Here's hoping I can stick with it.
Before this blog, I would go into strange moods. When those moods came over me, I'd think to myself 'uh oh. Here comes a mood. Best write something'. And then this vast vista of possibility washed over me. I could work on my novel. I would write a descriptive passage. I could set pen to paper and have everything that is sitting in my head come out in a horrible tangle and just like the look of the words on the page. I could rant and rave and write big words and write small words , or I could leap to my keyboard and just see how quickly I could churn out something, anything, that eased the sense of pressure.
Now, I get a strange mood. I immediately think of how I can exploit that mood and turn it into a blog post. I write a blog post. Sometimes, this mood goes away. Sometimes it doesn't and I have to go have a wank or something and wait till I pass out and troubled sleep erases the mood for me.
For those of you with delicate sensibilites, now is the time to navigate away from my blog. After much deliberation I have decided that this medium is as good as any other to express myself - but only if I stop lying and using it as merely a showcase for things I'm happy with. I'm not going to go on and on about what my blog is now because I don't feel like it. The only thing I'm going to to continue to do is to title my posts, because Future Me would like a frame of reference, my mind being a tidy sort of mind when it comes to text.
Other then that, I'm simply going to type whatever I feel is required to release the pressure in my head. No holds barred. That means I am going to talk about sex, probably in great detail. I am going to talk about my petty wants, needs and emotions (hatred and jealousy probably featuring most strongly). I am going to rave. I am going to not make sense. I am going to be pointlessly crude. And every now and then I'll continue to make something beautiful, as apparently I seem to be able to do.
If you think that the crassness is worth the risk, feel free to keep following this blog. The only way to access it is from my MSN or my Facebook - I'm not worried that I'm going to write something that will come back to bite me on the ass later, so I'm going to stop lying to this blog and I'm going to start writing what I need to write.
It's a nice sentiment, anyway. Here's hoping I can stick with it.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
New Year's Resolution
My new year's resolution is to have a New Year's Eve as new and different as the one I had this year.
Also, to stop making stupid resolutions.
Also, to stop making stupid resolutions.
Damage
Parasites, parasites, under my skin,
I'm so afflicted, of course you will win -
Is she alive, or is she dead?
Does she scream with the bugs in her head?
Damage her, damage her, plague her to death,
Break her chest open, for there's nothing left.
Burn her and scour her and take what you owe,
Your condemnation has made her hollow -
Damage me, damage me, smash in my face,
Maybe you'll see I've been put in my place,
Tear us apart for the glittering shell,
And I hope it gives you great comfort in hell.
I'm so afflicted, of course you will win -
Is she alive, or is she dead?
Does she scream with the bugs in her head?
Damage her, damage her, plague her to death,
Break her chest open, for there's nothing left.
Burn her and scour her and take what you owe,
Your condemnation has made her hollow -
Damage me, damage me, smash in my face,
Maybe you'll see I've been put in my place,
Tear us apart for the glittering shell,
And I hope it gives you great comfort in hell.
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