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.