Filed under: muse o muse, musik | Tags: amazing, band, Charge, group, lyrics, music
Light my way home
My boots are worn through
And I’m soaked to the bone with snow
Light my way home
My boots are worn through
And I’m soaked to the bone with snow
Oh how the tables turn
How the tables turn
Right round
How the tables turn
So lady
Light my way home
My boots are worn through
And I’m soaked to the bone with snow
Drag me through town
In the stillness of night
In the wet winter streets
I’ll drown
And I couldn’t resist if I wanted
You gave me your hand and the keys to your treasure
What my frost-bitten fingers stole from you
These hands that you trusted just fed seven vices
In a mild psychosis
Instead of golden sun
So lady
Light my way home
My boots are worn through
And I’m soaked to the bone with snow
Drag me through town
In the stillness of night
In the wet winter streets
I’ll drown
Help me get home
There’s no holes left to hide
And they don’t like me drinking alone
These vices have won
My boots are worn through
But your sole mending days are done
Oh how the tables turn
Oh how the tables turn
I had a friend of mine describe me as a person of extremes. I sail through life, feeling everything, but noticing nothing except those bits which make me feel something. I can break a leg, or a heart, or waste years of my life on some gambit, all in the hope of having something break through.
But maybe this is over. Maybe I’m changing, or allowing myself to change, or; something. I’m finally feeling my feet touch the ground, connect to something solid. My study is making me happy for once – imagine that! I’m working in a bloody tea shop – my dream job! And my social world, my friends, all those people I care about… I’m becoming less afraid to open up.
It’s liberating.
*On another note, this note is possibly the most egotistical thing I’ve ever written; I mentioned myself twenty-one times. Woot!
Filed under: image conscious, muse o muse, thought images | Tags: creative, drawings, image, new, pencil
I suppose it’s close to words. It’s the same tool, the same substance. The same thoughtless provocations that spur me on to attempt to create something, to invent, to interpret. More of this has been happening than words – I’ve felt the urge to write countless times, but… the follow through hasn’t occurred. Perhaps I need motivation. Or perhaps just another medium.
Like this.
…perhaps more will appear.
At least I feel like I’m changing. Perhaps not. But things around me, things within me, things that I have felt, things that I want to feel… these are changing. And for the better, too… if all things come together in the end, somehow, I’m feeling that they’re getting better. But, hey. Maybe’s its just a change of the season.
In other news, I bought myself a bonsai. It’s absolutely beautiful… and so, so, so, unbelievably detailed. You can even make out individual leaves on the green, creeping moss that has made its way almost to the first fork of the tree. And the bark… it looks just like the real thing. Heh.
I found it really interesting how many people were intrigued by the presence of a tree on public transport. I had at least half a dozen conversations with total strangers… I mean, that’s a normal thing for me, but 6 conversations within… oh, 45 minutes? Total record. It was pretty amazing… like the tree repealed all the usual social hiccups, facilitating conversation. Or maybe it was simply that I was in a fantastic mood, and that coupled with the unusual presence of a bonsai was too much of a curiosity to pass up.
Anyway, off to bed. If anyone wants to pop in for a coffee tomorrow, I’m working all day, 630-1500, at Naked Coffee. До Сведания.
Filed under: generic text, i feel like bitching, muse o muse, political musings | Tags: ANZAC, day, M.I.A., war
I tried all day on friday to write a blog. I tried all day to do study. I tried all day to do something fulfilling or somehow useful. And I believe I managed to fail quite miserably. The one thing I managed was a catchy title (see above), but since the poignant moment of listening to M.I.A.’s Kala on ANZAC day has passed, that is also irrelevant. Therefore, the day seems entirely pointless, if rated by the usual ’substance of product completed’, ”concrete evidence of… something evident’ and ‘personal satisfaction with day’. You could almost say it was an empty day.
And, frankly, I would agree with you if you said that. I was about to attempt to iterate some statement of how I did things, how the day was truly fulfilling through that lack of ‘achievement’, etc, but frankly it was quite an average day. The highlight of the day was probably the point in time, just prior to 12.21am, when I and a friend jumped the fences from another friends’ house to mine (two fences in total). This was quite satisfying.
However, the amount of satisfaction that I gained from ‘jumping the fences back home’ was, to be blunt, fuck all, when I compare it to the amount of satisfaction that I feel when, in years past, I have stood on the side of the road, watched the old diggers drive past and honoured their contributions to this country. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am far from being a patriot… anyone who knows me at all, and possibly even anyone who has read this blog would know that. I disagree with war and violence in all its contexts. I quite blatantly disagree with the concept of the armed forces, although I acknowledge the need for their existence. Etc. Etc.
You see, I could keep bitching about the things I dislike about this country for hours and hours, just as I did back in high school, and in the last paragraph. However. The importance of acknowledging the service and sacrifice of the men and women who have died for the country that I am (often unwillingly) part of is something that, for me, far surpasses any of these notions. I don’t exactly know why. But I don’t care. For once, I don’t actually care why I feel the need to remember these people. I just think it matters.
So, next year, on ANZAC day, I’ll try to get to the parade. Instead of waking up with a hangover, wasting a day and then wasting the next one, I’m going to pay my respects. Not to war, not to violence, and not to the patriarchal society that I am a part of, but to the old buggers who we’re slowly forgetting about.
Filed under: generic text, muse o muse, musik | Tags: change, elliott smith, facebook chat, music
There’s always more to take out. More rubbish to ‘dispose of’, more pieces of old friends, more leftovers from relationships, more junk collector’s junk. I thought that was what moving house was for, but now, after moving 8 times in just over 2 years, I think I’m desensitized to anything that moving house can do to me. Or maybe I’m just saturated.
Anyway, I’m attempting to study. It’s really hard! Indescribably hard, actually, now that Facebook Chat has arrived. I jump on, intending to be on there for, oh, 10 minutes or so… and end up wasting an hour. An hour! Memories of epic MSN conversations in those deathly high school years come to mind… of course, 9 hours of chatting is a little different than 45 minutes or so of chat-specific Facebook distractions, but it’s still a waste of time. Or something like that.
Elliott Smith sang, as I was writing that, just then, this second, this moment:
“It’s a waste of time
I put it behind once and for all
And let the hype decline
If the problem wasn’t mine…” [from Go By]
Talk about a distraction. My whole train of thought has derailed itself… thanks, Elliott. I should be used to the Elliott Smith distraction, my housemate is, well, a little obsessed with the lovely chap. This is a rather healthy obsession (is there any other type?) and seems to be in a sort of stasis, not growing, not shrinking… in use every day, but not every moment.
So, anyway. As you can probably tell from the title of this entry, we emptied out the house last night – that is, we moved the TV downstairs, along with one of the couches – in a flurry of cleansing. However, as you may also be able to tell, we haven’t emptied out ourselves… Duncan is still the same Elliott Smith lover, I’m still the same uber-procrastinater, and Peter is, well, just Peter. Therefore, it seems that we have discovered the answer to that old ‘Nature vs. Nurture’ debate… our physical surroundings have changed, yet we have not.
How deep.
Siting here in my beanie, thick grey socks and hoodie, watching the rain dribble down the windows. Not in the mood for anything university-related, but knowing that something has to be, must be, done, and writing instead. Taking off my beanie for a bit due to its slightly-too-fantastic heat-saving properties. Listening to Bright Eyes ramble, ramble, ramble. Feeling empty, hungry, yet not appetised. Gluggy, messy, vague, yet content.
Interesting how a normal reply would be, ‘Oh, I’m ok’, yet when I allow myself a moment to think about how I truly feel, how everything feels, an entire paragraph just falls out of my fingers. There are cars going past, too, but that never stops, and I don’t hear them any more, unless I try. And Ardour, the beautiful fish, is floating, fluttering, gliding around in his ex-Cranberry juice bottle, looking the happiest I think I’ve seen him in months – I would have included him, but, I think he can speak for himself.
I’ll try and concentrate for a moment. Bright Eyes is still depressedly warbling in his beautiful way, and it’s a little distracting, but, I’ll manage.
What I wanted to specifically say was that I’m worried about my drinking habits. I’m not a fish. I don’t constantly need to drown myself in 2 litres of liquid to survive. I’m perfectly capable of breathing air unaided, of speaking through unlubricated lungs, and of functioning as a complete human without the aid of stimulants and/or depressents.
Yet, I still drink. Why? Because it’s fun. Because my friends are doing it. Because there are people that I seem to only hang out with when I’m drinking. Because, I suppose, everyone does it. And that makes it ok. No, it doesn’t make it ok. It makes it an expectation. Just like in class on thursday, when my history tutor told an inquisitive, de-alcoholised vegan from my class that, in so many words, they would need to break their personal moral standings in order to be accepted should they ever wish to visit Russia. That sort of made me feel a bit shit.
Just going to tangent for a moment. Does this mean that when people come to Australia, they are told they have to drink beer, eat seafood, and like sports, or else they won’t fit in? As a vegetarian, an occasionally de-alcoholised person, and as anti-sports as they come, I would be in the absolute minority. But I exist! And I’m sure that people like me exist in Russia, too. I have no doubt.
Anyway, back to the monologue. When I had 3.5 weeks without alcohol after NYE this year it was amazing, and cleansing, and I felt fantastic afterwards. My feet touched the earth again. As a result, I can now drink without having memory loss – I suppose that means my liver is getting better – I have much a much less-protruding stomach, and I generally sleep better.
Yet, I still drink. Why? Because… I drink. Because we all drink.
So… I’m going to be drinking less from now on. I’ve been drinking much less during the past few months, but, I feel like I’m still drinking too much. I’ve been a serious binge drinker for too long, the one that always got pissed at the party, didn’t throw up (not usually anyway) and generally just made a massive fool out of themselves.
And when I do drink, I’m only going to drink good alcohol (yeah, I know, it’s all bad for me). Specifically in the form of red wine… not cheap, $6 bottles like I was enjoying on friday night, but decent wine, the sort that gets you silly, but not forgetful or messy.
All this, and perhaps more, is going to start now. It’s going to start with the dreary facade that I feel to be the onset of winter, yet hopefully it will outlast it. Hopefully it was last longer than a Bright Eyes album, specifically the one that just finished, There Is No Beginning to the Story. But hopefully it will be as enjoyable.
