What’s with a name
I woke up this morning with Dolly Parton’s ‘Working 9-5’ in my head and could not get out of bed. Obviously I eventually did and with enough muesli and eyeliner I left my shoebox to venture out into the big wide world…the big wide world. There is seldom eye contact and perhaps that’s a good thing on a tram, people are caught up in texting, in daydreaming, in fading hopes and failures.The tone of this piece of writing is slightly depressing, and I can assure you, I am trying very hard to get myself out of this funk I am in. I look for clues, I look for patterns, in the floor, on the bus, in the sounds and conversations…but patterns that will give me the answers I seek to what? I’m not sure I even have clarified the question. I walk into a supermarket, which I do not recommend, to buy some things for a meal, and I am paralysed. You know what I’m talking about! You look at the shiny trough of broccoli, the tomatoes, the spinach in packets and you start thinking about all the packets and all the avocados and all the broccoli and where it all comes from and how far away, and then I start to calculate how many supermarkets there are like this in Melbourne, in Australia, in the world and I am paralysed on the spot, with people pushing past me.
Personally I think anyone who cross-dresses, plays with gender, drags it is admirable in as far as gender performance goes and courage. Most of the time I feel like a horse on the wrong side of the paddock. I have not left my inner-six year old’s conception of make-up….colour lines smudge–more colour!! I am rambling this morning, and I fear this may not be the finest of my posts, but I’m going to keep writing, even if I don’t post this.
I wonder where my poetry will go…where it will come from. I wonder about travelling to Mongolia and Italy and Brazil. And I am lost to the now. The now. Do you think people are addicted to their iphones? Maybe a chemical reaction between the brain’s reward system and blinking messages happens and so it become completely addictive.
I smelt cat piss this morning in my house. My oldest cat Babooshka has had a peeing problem for ages…”Miss Pissy pants peeing parlour’ as we grudgingly call our shoebox. I clean up her cat pee every morning and night. N and I take turns. I know it usually points to feeling of territory, feeling insecure, feeling the need to dominate…I’ve tried a variety of things over the years.
People are very serious in the business districts of Melbourne, They talk about policy and promises and government and holidays and wait for their coffees. I am writing this all down because I feel if I do not write this all down something is lost. Hopefully not your time reading it. I have been sitting here for 20 minutes and I feel utterly displaced. but you know what? That feeling of being displaced is not a sad lonely feeling. It is freeing. I feel unrestricted and unbounded, I feel I have unraveled myself because I have chosen to do so.
But have I? Have circumstances, have synaptic connections and disconnections propelled forth this unraveling. I wonder if I would have enjoyed the Paris Boulevard and the small coffee houses in back streets at the turn of the century?