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September 20, 2005

I like ...

I think it is time I actually laid down on paper the things that bring me great happiness in life. What makes me feel good? I spend so often thinking about what makes me feel bad, but I am again twigging to the fact that this kind of cognition is the mental equivalent of a Big Mac - a drug of the masses, based on a sham, good at the time but entirely bad for you. Without further ado: My loves and likes and desires, in no particular order, are:

My friends
Playing Scrabble
Martin
The first sip of champagne
Sex
Reading Helen Garner
Fresh herbs
Kissing ... slooooow and deep
Baths by candlelight
Spring afternoons in the park
The massage chair at the chiropractor
Troubling, slice of life films
Morning walks with Nat
Movies with Mark
Finishing a story
Poached eggs and the Sunday papers bathed in weak sunlight
Perfectly made up eyes (all the better for batting my lashes)
Heartfelt cuddles
Feeling loved

That will do for now.


Chick peas please me quick

Somewhere along the line, I decided my saviour was chick peas. Nutritious and delicious whether crunchy or pasty, they are just so damn delicious.

The problem is that chick peas are merely a euphemism for the good health that plagues me in its absence.

Back to zero

So in the past week I have smoked cigarettes, eaten chips, drunk myself into a stupor three times, slept little, had sex with a boy, had quasi-sex with a girl, stared into space, smoked more cigarettes, eaten chick peas and sworn off myself all over again. Christ, I even packed a gym bag this morning, pumped full of the wrong kind of hormones and feeling queasy, with every intention of pouring my sweat out on the running machine.

I had this sudden lurching sensation yesterday morning when I realised somewhat belatedly that I was not actually heading towards anything - that life was looming ahead like one long treadmill and I had lost sense of my purpose. That the weeks and weekends were starting to look awfully similar. And I started to wonder if I'd ever had one at all. But I don't feel gloomy right now - far from it.

God it's been so long since I've written and I feel like there's so much to say. I have been instructed of late to have higher regard for my feelings than my intellect - and it feels ... it FEELS ... like a terribly fucking hard thing to do.

Some scenes: We're lying in bed and my eyes are puffy-pink, don't want to open. My mouth is glued, sick-sweet with empty champagne bubbles and I have this tenuous feeling that ... yes, yes we did. And I giggle, remembering the awful fumble of it, and surprisingly there is no awkwardness despite the abject lack of lust or love or anything! It isn't until later that I wake again to the hammers in my head and the cringe ... shit shit shit why didn't I write the article yesterday?! ... and trying to remember the difference between grecian and tuscan architecture.

Days earlier: I keep touching my finger to the corner of my mouth, amazed at myself. I flicker through the rememberances like celluloid, brief flashes of tongue and hand making me shriek out loud for their very nearness, their REALNESS. And I am half smirking, half shrieking, for the rest of the day.

I keep examining the circles under my eyes, painted darker every day. My pupils seem to grow darker and more distant in tandem. I swear, never again, never again, and my eyes - how they mock me.

I keep thinking about sex, the big bad and raw dirtiness of it and I am almost climbing the walls.