But not as much as Mr Far ...

Distracting

I've been trying to work and listen to Radio National at the same time. It doesn't work. I can't concentrate. It works when I'm just making things with my hands, but not when I am reading/writing/working on the computer.

So I need to listen to music instead. But everything distracts me. What could I listen to that wouldn't distract me but that would energise me to work reading/writing/on the computer? No lyrics might be good. Or not English language. Not too wishy washy or la di la. Or too angry or oppressive.

I can tell you now, Jens Lekman doesn't work. He's totally annoying me.

So I don't want to take any more chances. Just need a sure thing.

... OK?

Note to self

Ha bloody ha

ION

I just found orange Fimo in my doona.

Thing is, I haven't made any orange objects on my bed.

Spooooky.

I'm manifesting my Fimo dreams into material reality.

I dreamt about Fimo again last night. I had little beige bits that I was slicing up on my desk. It was naturalistic and earthworks-y. In my dream I was happy.

Anyway. Better get on with it.

I'm tired of that old post

So here is a new post.

That could be a country song. "I'm tired of that ol post". Or have I been listening to too much am radio?

It's been a long-seeming day.

In other news, daylight will now officially be squandered (on the northern hemisphere? in the mornings when I'm not capable of using it?). The prospect of the downhill slide to another unheated Sydney terrace house winter doesn't really raise my spirits.

What should I cook for dinner? No cook, no eat, see.

Blaaaaaah.

Officially drowning

I am coming to realise that I *always* have a layer of stress or anxiety lurking just below the surface of my consciousness (that's if it's not out there for all to see, which it frequently is).

For all my talk about my work (art) being about representation (signification etc), I suppose it actually *is* expressive, in that it's (becoming more and more) a sublimation of my anxieties (about time running out, my not-perfectness, lots of other things). Which might be stuff that shouldn't be indulged, that should remain below the surface. Sublimatedly. Because surfaces are fragile, and I'm not sure I can walk around with all my guts spilling out all the time ... which leads me to a pro-unselfawareness position, see, the weakness of which I'm sure my dear readers would recognise and consequently reject. "Maintain the surface for the sake of preserving the status quo? Never! Break it down!"

(those are my readers speaking).

Anyway, there are a lot of people in the art world who speak sense. I forget to focus on them. Or forget to be rigorous enough to look hard enough for them and listen properly.

I suppose for me art's a safe place to strip down the boundaries of meaning without risk (risk of losing one's grip on meaning in the real world: one's grip on reality).

Sublimation.

Is that noble?

Not So Sure.

Only if it heals or something. The worry is that it perpetuates the issues or negativity that are being sublimated, or gives you a reason to keep unhelpful thoughts s freshly watered.

Heh

I just want to feel connected. Is that too much to ask?

Homme

So, JC is a fucking good drawer. You should look at his illustrations. I really like the New York ones. He draws so effortlessly.

JC, you told me you wrote a novel - what happened to that, eh?

And what about that trip to Sydney? Huh??

A warning, though: it's no NYC. It ain't even Paris.

In the meantime, I'm making more flags. I'm over 'em.

*cough*

What a swell party

Topics of conversation tonight included:

*Which Jane Austen character are you most like?
*Does reading Archie comics as a child give you unrealistic ideas about what teenagerhood will be like?
*The emphasis on scatology in French culture
*Cost/benefit analyses in everyday life and 'Freakonomics'
*Hill End
*Sideways [film]
*The woman who gave birth to rabbits (fake!)
*The possible formation of a photographic lighting ownership cooperative

I can't remember any more. There was a lot of wine and food and goodness.

That is all.

Back and hyperventilating

I'm back from my thingo. I didn't *really* get that much work done but everyone likes to tell me that it will all absorb itself and make sense later. I don't know about that. I think getting work done is getting work done, and not getting work done is not getting it done.

Actually I don't know that I really think that.

So anyway. I feel overwhelmed by the big city and all the work that has piled up in my absence and the money I didn't earn while I was away and all that jazz.

This is the house I stayed in and part of its garden. Well, really, this is a picture of part of the house that I stayed in and a picture of part of its garden.

*sigh*

You may say to yourself, my god! What have I done?

David Byrne is just a magnificent performer. I love this song. I remember hearing it for the first time when I was little in the soundtrack to Down and Out in Beverly Hills. Everything about this is great.

Dream 11/2/08

When I closed my computer to go to sleep, the review I'd been drafting was automatically posted on Facebook, in all its notes-y, drafty glory. By the time I woke up, everyone in the world had read my draft and knew all about what I *really* think.

It's a world of procrastination from where I'm sitting

I'm so tired
I haven't slept a wink
I'm so tired
My mind is on the blink
I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink
No, no, no

I'm so tired
I don't know what to do
I'm so tired
My mind is set on you
I wonder should I call you
But I know what you would do

You'd say I'm putting you on
But it's no joke
It's doing me harm
You know I can't sleep
I can't stop my brain
You know it's three weeks
I'm going insane
You know I'd give you everything I've got for a little peace of mind

I'm so tired
I'm feeling so upset
Although I'm so tired
I'll have another cigarette
And curse Sir Walther Raleigh
He was such a stupid git

You'd say I'm putting you on
But it's no joke
It's doing me harm
You know I can't sleep
I can't stop my brain
You know it's three weeks
I'm going insane
You know, I'd give you everything I've got for a little peace of mind
I'd give you everything I've got for a little peace of mind
I'd give you everything I've got for a little peace of mind

I need energy

Time's a-wasting

It's 'another post' o'clock

I am striking while the posting energy iron is hot.

In a strange twist of deja-vu-esque 2007-2008 synchronicity, I am shortly to go on another residency.

I am going to this house in a small village for a month:


It's going to be beautiful, productive, peaceful, old, interesting, sometimes lonely and probably some other things that I cannot yet predict.

There, the posting iron will not only not be hot, it won't even exist. That's correct. No internetiendo! It's a gaspworthy thing, yessir.

I will, however, survive.

Meh meh meh

All this rain and dampness is really starting to bring me down.
























Update: today's falls are in fact heavy to very heavy.

Nuff said.

Dream 4/2/08

I have moved to Melbourne. I move in with Teigan and his gf, who is in fact my very short, wacky and extroverted playwright friend Van. She makes her living reading tarot cards in the street. She has a wig on and glasses. Their home is full of sixties design furniture and very intellectual books I haven't read, and their conversations are very involved and lively. Fitzroy, where they live, is unbelievably busy and exciting. I buy bread two doors up from our house. You can just break off what you need and they sell you that. You can buy just a few mouthfuls of a bread roll if that's all you want. The freshness and quality of the food is incredible. The girl at the bakery makes friends with me and walks me around for a while. We go to an improbably happening Turkish or Hungarian bar full of young people dressed as Berlin Communists circa 1930s. They are all dancing to loud, frenetic music. I watch from outside. After, they chat to me and are very friendly, giving me ethnic sweets to eat. I keep walking, feeling like I am somewhere wonderful I cannot appreciate. I meet people on the streets who are all young and interesting and want to talk to me, but it feels lonely. I realise there must be artists I know here, but I don't know where they are. I put a token in a street vending machine and it spits out hundreds of yellow counters. You can redeem them at a couch shop, but it is a scam and you don't get anything for your money. I am balanced on a gate and it tumbles off its hinges to the ground. I realise I have made a terrible mistake moving here. I wonder if it is too late to move back home before the winter comes.

How often do you clean your silver?