Satisfied?

Time to write in italics. That signifies I'm moody, right?

Where the fuck is that sense of satisfaction?
Twice today. Carnally and mentally. Everything that should have given reprieve, release - where is it? Who the fuck stole it from me? At what point in this metamorphisis did I lose the ability to gloat? To cackle, to crow and to wallow? To glory in success, in the thrill of being right, in the release, in the breaking of the drought, the turning of the tide, the light in their eyes fading to grim understanding and under it all the knowledge that you wrought this, you and you alone, and that you did from the start and you knew from the very beginning that everything would play out the way you expected it to and now that you've taken what you want from their foolish eyes and their confusion and the cavorting of their bodies you can leave them in the dust.

So where the fuck is it?
You were wrong. I was right. That should be the end of it. I should be able to rub your nose in the mess you've made. Say 'Hah. You were wrong. This is what you get for doubting me. This is what you deserve.' And then I should be able to spin on my heel and walk away. Instead, I feel sick. Sick to my very stomach that you had to go through this. Sick to my core that something like this could come along and I would expect to feel satisfaction from it. Sick, instead of pleased. I would have been pleased a month ago. Why am I not pleased.

You stole it from me.
I don't think I'll ever forgive you for giving me dimensions.

Seven Opened

This was a creative response for a year 11 subject. I don't think I blogged it at the time, but I found it cleaning out my documents. So, yeah. Now it's here.



Seven opened his eyes.

It was precisely eight hours since he has closed them. His body had received an optimal amount of sleep and as he lifted his left arm and pressed the red ‘release’ button on his sleeping pod he heard the pneumatic hiss as the other pods in his row released. He lifted his head and sat up, knowing that on his left, Six was seated – and on his right, Eight had awoken. He did not bother to turn his head. That action had no logic – Six and Eight were both there, and there was no point in speaking to them or even noticing them.

His feeding tube snaked down from the trough that ran along the low-slung metal roof above their heads. As the pods began to slowly vibrate to further awaken their senses, Seven took his feeding tube in his left hand and placed it in his mouth. He felt the tube begin to pump raw nutrient paste and he busied himself with swallowing it mechanically. He noted distantly that Eight sounded like he was having some trouble keeping up with his flow of paste – perhaps a visit to the medical facilities was in order again. Physical inability would not be tolerated. To be imperfect was to be illogical. To be identical was the purpose of life. Eight would be assisted to equality or he would be terminated.

Seven blinked at a rate of eight blinks a minute, but he allowed himself a ninth in acknowledgement of his wandering mind. Speculation on Eight was illogical. He removed his feeding tube from his mouth after the Feeding Minute had passed, and rose from his sleeping pod. Taking three steps forward, he turned and faced left, looking directly at the back of Six’s shaved head. As the hatches above opened and the cleansing fluid began to rain down upon their naked bodies from the central tanks, he wondered if Six was female. It was a strong possibility – on the seven occasions he had glimpsed Six reach out for a feeding tube or a release button, the hand had given the impression of slim bone structure – something Seven was sure was a feminine trait, or at least, had once been. He reminded himself that unless he was selected to provide genetic material for the Fourth Generation he would likely never know what gender Six was, and as the cleaning fluid dribbled over his body and seared away any traces of body hair or imperfection he reminded himself that gender was a secondary concern. All people were ‘he’. All people were identical. To be identical was the purpose of life.

After the Cleaning Minute had been concluded and the ten people in Seven’s row had been prepared for the work of the day before them, they marched from the sleeping quarters – starting with the left foot, two steps to each second – and headed down the metallic corridor towards their working quarters. Here they met with other rows coming from their quarters and moving in time. Seven did not bother to look at them. His attention was focused entirely on the back of Six’s head as he – or was it she? – led him to the work station. After three minutes and forty seconds, Seven found himself standing by his steel-grey work station. It consisted, he knew, of a metal desk with a computer on it and a metal chair identical to the desk. There was no paper, no drawers, and certainly no walls. Walls were not required when everybody performed identical tasks. Seven seated himself with a mental reminder that he was truly living in paradise. Sleeping chamber, corridor, work quarters. His whole world.

The day’s work began. Seven reached down with his right hand and switched on his computer. His computer clicked on, as did the hundred other computers in the room. All but one. There was a delay of two seconds, and then the computer directly behind Seven clicked. The noise echoed about the work quarters and Seven knew that Eight had turned his computer on late. Yet another sign that Eight was no longer identical. It brought shame on Seven’s entire row and if indignation had been a logical emotion Seven would have been full of it. Eight was flawed and would likely be terminated. The most logical thing to do would be to apply himself to his work exactly the same way he did every day. Eight’s transgression would not affect his ability to contribute to the whole. To be identical was the purpose of life. Imperfection was illogical. Seven set to his work, as did all the people around him – hopefully including Eight.

If Seven had possessed the capacity for boredom, his work would have filled that capacity to the brink. His work – and the work of all those around him – was endlessly shuffling figures of columns from one line to another in repetitive and pointless displays of mathematics. Seven did not know what purpose his calculations served. The entire Third Generation performed the same work – or so he assumed. He did not wonder why. Such thoughts were illogical and imperfect. Seven applied himself to his calculations with no deviation and no flaws. He was identical to his peers in every way, and his life was devoted entirely to the community.

That all changed with the smell.

Seven inhaled through his nostrils at the rate of twelve breaths per minute, and in the third hour of his work on the twenty-second minute, his eighth breath registered a change in the air. Lungs that had inhaled nothing but circulated air for over three decades struggled to cope with this utterly foreign atmosphere. Nasal passages that had experienced nothing but cleansing fluid, nutrient paste and metallic cleaner for years sent frantic signals to Seven’s brain. This was something new, they said. Something different.

Seven looked down. There was a crack in the metal at his feet. Some pressure or weakness in the construction had weakened the floor just enough for a tiny crack to form, and from it drifted raw, pure air. Seven inhaled deeply, deeper than was logically required. The air smelt like damp earth, like rain – like plants. Seven hadn’t seen a plant in forty years, but he knew what one smelt like. He raised his head and stood up.

“I wonder what’s at the end of the corridor.”

A shiver ran through the assembled rows. Illogical! Imperfect! A heretic! They fixed their eyes on their screens and didn’t pay him the slightest heed, but he could see the distress in their eyes. He took three steps forward, and then stopped counting. He started with his right foot instead of his left. He sped up his pace as he headed for the door. His body screamed in protest but the scent was in his nostrils and he didn’t care. The door was open and there was nothing anybody could do to stop him. Out of the work quarters, into the corridor, down to the end of the catwalk. There was a door here, a door he hadn’t noticed in three decades of walking the corridor. A door with a red release button.

Seven opened his eyes.

Ascendancy

The first step is to stop waking up.
Walking the streets and smelling the air,
Air is the enemy.

The second step is to lock yourself away.
Confinement is the pathway to the other.
Movement is chains.

The third step is to turn off your mind.
Those thoughts are often crass and crude,
The mind is a crutch.

The fourth step is to dream.
There's purity of purpose behind your eyes,
Flight, and flame, and power.

The fifth step is to rise.
Flesh falls away, the dross of your life,
Life is death. Die to live.

The sixth step is to forget.
What is, is what was, and what shall be.
You were nothing before now.

The seventh step is to raze.
Destroy all that could undo your work.
You're light and strength and destruction.

Three for Five

I'm going to try something different today. I'm going to post some pictures, and then I'm going to write three sentences underneath those pictures. Consider this a creative writing activity. Or something. I don't know. I just want to get some juices flowing tonight. Hear that, Ollie? You're making me get my juices flowing.



It worked better than I had hoped, hunkered down as I was behind the gaping maw of madness. I thought for sure I'd be singed, or simply that it wouldn't work. I didn't know what to do with it, but I knew it felt good.





Bruised, battered and broken. Not quite done yet, though. I still have something left.




I'm finding that I don't feel the same way I used to feel about you. The pieces don't fit together so well anymore. I think I'm in the grip of something beyond my comprehension...





"When I snap my fingers, you'll be afraid to think!"
"I wonder what I'll cook for dinner tonight?"
"That's the spirit."



It raised a bald, feeble head and blinked eyes fresh from the birthing vats, already adjusting to the purpose I had instilled within it. I robed it in the uniform of my House, the garments of an honoured servant.
"What is your will, Master?"

So it isn't pure genius. It -was- kind of fun though. Try it sometime if you can't think of anything to write. There's at least two short stories in that.

Something Benny Said

Needed to save this. Somebody put how I'm feeling at the moment far better than I ever could have.

My dear Jason,
You are a creature of ridiculous, yet beautiful, contradictions. The vast and various energies bouncing around inside of you - which sometimes seem to me to be almost too much for your body to handle, bursting at the seams with them - are often diametrically opposed: severe melancholy, but boundless joy; an affected arrogance battling with a vital desire to love and be loved, to care and be cared for; a modesty that verges on self-destructive next to a confidence in your considerable abilities that makes you near dangerous (in the best of ways, of course). Creative and destructive forces, engaged in the constant battle which shapes your fluid, dynamic, engaging and arresting personality and gives you such a strong presence and charisma that it's hard to look away, literally and figuratively...
But perhaps what I love most, is that when all these forces become too much, when you become overwhelmed, you give in to that vulnerability, revel in it, and then with determination, you pick yourself up and start again, rebuilding from scratch until you are once more a force to be reckoned with. It's an inspiring way to live and be, all that I've listed here, and I love it all.

Beauty

Your beauty,
Isn't for me,
You will give it to the whores,
The disenfranchised and forlorn.
You grace the loud Americans,
You smile at drunks in stinking dens,
You're dazzling and ablaze,
You leave them lost and dazed.

Your beauty
Cannot possibly,
Be free of charge.
It's just too large!
You'll give it to the crowding mass,
Their probing eyes, their minds so crass,
And then the lights will all come on,
They look around, and then you're gone,
A fleeting glimpse, a stirring word,
A snatch of laughter's all they've heard,
And I want more, I want it all,
But if I reach out I'll surely fall,
To others you come easily,
But you're just out of reach for me.

Your beauty,
isn't for me.
I'll turn my mind to spite and scorn,
To multiple partners and internet porn,
To closed off minds, to tattered hearts,
To nights that can tear me apart,
To hate and rage and solitude,
To an angry, sullen attitude -
If I can't have you, what's the use?
Henchforth my anguish will serve as my muse.

Your beauty's all I've wanted,
Ever since we kissed and parted.
And you'll grace the world with your devotion,
But you made me feel emotion.

Of Forgiveness, Love, and Creation

You're so busy living your life that you don't have any time to record it and that makes you sad. Do you have any idea how monumentally strange that is?

Hoo boy, it has been some time.

Months, in fact.

Let's try and debrief a little. Or a lot. Whatever happens, right? Then I'll write something down in italics to make it seem deeper than it actually is (already done once, but what the hey) and then we'll call it an evening. Christ, where to begin.

And there's a myriad of things left to do. Spiralling and spinning around, eating up the hours like the fish you keep in the corner and you're the feeders.

I suppose I should start as far back as I can possibly go. Much Ado About Nothing finished. I didn't do a post when it finished because I was blinded with rage/ill with tonsilitis. The show was as always an incredible experience, and not just because of the people involved or the script or what-have-you. I was stabbed in the back rather heavily during the afterparty, but good came out of it, so I can't hold hatred on the matter. Much Ado showed me that I can be a good person. I can agonize about hurting people, I can compromise, I can work with people who are insufferable at times and I can love with every part of me so hard that nothing can stop me from truimphing. And if that all sounds utterly wanky, that's fine, because it probably is. I'm just trying to express that for me, as always, a play is a learning experience and a chance to grow as a person, and I'm certainly doing that.
I forgave somebody. With no spite, no malice and no promise of further retribution, I forave somebody for wronging me. I hope that future me will look back on this post and not understand why this is such a big deal. It is a huge deal. I don't think I've never been able to do that before.
Also, Shakespeare was quite satisfying and will probably continue to be a love of mine on stage for a very long time.
And on the subject of love...

He thickens the air you breathe, a cloying, confounding musk that threatens to overwhelm you. A vapour that can change the way you think. A virus that can change who you are. Something that cannot be resisted and is pleasure to endure. You're wide open and vulnerable.

I'm in it. Disgusting, I know. I've been living with Patrick for three months now. We've been together four. We're currently househunting. I am dangerously close to sharing his bed (this may not seem like a big deal, but for future me, it will be). We lie awake at all hours talking about the world and eating chocolate. We watch television, we play computer games, we kiss and fuck and go out drinking, we plan plays, we hate each other's parents (okay, I just hate his) and we dote over our pet fish. He's found himself growing more vicious and less forgiving, more willing to be conceited and scornful, more willing to punish those who transgress against him. I've found myself softer, more willing to let somebody in, wanting to please somebody just because I can, doing things because it will bring a smile to somebody else's face. It's pathetic. We're entwined. I think I'm happier than I've ever been. It's exhilarating. I never want it to end and yet sometimes it threatens to tear me apart. This, my friends, is living. And now I'll stop talking about him because there's nothing I can say in words that will encompass how I'm feeling. Greater men than me have tried. For now, it is enough.

These monologues are threatening to explode out of you, like a geyser of cheap verbosity and poisoned penmanship. You fall asleep at night and dream of men whose skulls are gripped in vices and their skin explodes off them like a potato in a pipe - and deep in your soul you know that you dream of yourself.

I'm still caught up in The Case - which is the play that I'm submitting to be put on next year, dear reader, if you have forgotten. I feel as though I know these characters I've created better than myself some days. Their motivations are clear to me, their paths laid out, their ends inevitable. It's neater than my own life in a lot of ways, as depressing as that sounds. I don't quite know what I'll do if my submission is rejected. I have a burning need to stage something, anything - to run a process, to create something worth creating. You, my blog, are something to treasure, but you are not a play, and you are rarely if ever viewed. I hunger for more. I'm praying to whatever god will listen that I get it.

And now, snapshots, cameos of a life well lived, driven by that burning need to note it all down lest it fade into nothing and be less than nothing when you move on from it. These photographs in sentences will not suffice, and yet, what more can you do?

• I have seen some very good plays recently. Pirate Rhapsody, Measure for Measure, Frankenstein in Love. I also saw Spring Awakening and I could not stand it. It does me good to say that, even if everyone else seemed to love it.
  
• I want to lie on a beach and drink lemonade. Read a book in the sun that makes me think and go for a dip in the shallows and feel the flesh on my back slowly roast and know that I'll pay for it later.
  
• This Saturday I am going to inspect a two-storey townhouse to see if we can live in it. It is beautiful on the outside. I think I can make it beautiful on the inside too, with a bit of work. Kind of like myself, really.
• I am, as ever, surrounded by beautiful, engaging, insightful and intelligent people and I could not ask for more, because there could be nothing better.
• Cave Johnson is the name of the aforementioned fish. He is an Oscar and he is a greedyguts. I love him very much and I hope that the pH problem sorts itself out.
• IT shops are rip-offs and should not be allowed to stay open, the thieving bastards.
• I am still not speaking to my brother, and this will probably continue until I go back to Canberra in November.
• My parents have moved house, from the rental in Gordon to a bought house in Banks. I hope they are happy. I think about them a lot.
• My father told me last week that what I do with my penis is no concern of his. It sounded like a plea. It also was very touching. I'm not quite sure what to make of my father now that he's clean and sober. He challenges a lot of my preconceptions about him.
• I miss Savannah very much and cannot wait for her to live with me.
• University is secondary, which is unfortunate.
• I should resolve to stress less, and in all honesty, blog more. This has helped.

And now, cast this aside and return to bed, alone for the first ime in weeks. Seared in the flames of your thoughts, allowing yourself to be tormented by an insignificant absence, by a void. There is nothing wrong with you. You feel so strongly there is no room in you to doubt yourself. I love you.

I suppose that's all for tonight. I might try my hand at writing a few more songs this month. No promises, though. There's Case monologues to work on and subjects to finish and a house to move into. There's no room for sorrow. Life is being lived.