Nothing to say, no means to say it, but I must say something.

HAVE YOU WALKED?

THE ULTRASTYLE OF THE UNDECIDED; People attempt style through antiques and even bogans have theirs; the thing I respect about Sonic Youth is their carpark video in a honda civic. KOMM GIB MIR DEINE HAND!

The man, when he arrived, was bloated and had blunt red hair; I barely saw the car, perhaps because it was a light colour and anyhow, I was in no mood to interpret cars; I'd spent the day shivering.

Or perhaps I've simply extinguished the car from that part of my memories.

Perhaps the pleasure of motion rebels against a still picture -

I pretended to look at the car a little bit.

We took it for a test drive.

This man, this gigantic man, talked fast and hesitantly. It was the conversation, perhaps, of a high school victim, who quickly learnt how to blend in; I don't think he lied to me, much. I complained about the steering, and various other things, to give the impression that the car wasn't worth much. When we got out, onto the sharp chips covered by tarseal (do you know what it's like to walk? do you know how it compares to driving?), I said,

"I'll give you $500 cash for it."

He clutched his chest mockingly, said, "You cut straight to the point, don't you?" but then, when I remained silent, said, "alright, then." So I have a car.

"But he couldn't be there because he'd taken too much drugs."
Satire relieves the pain of the 'I'
"I wanted to go and do music but the cunts made me go and fill in my unemployment form."
No inclination to get breast implants; reading a sexist humour mag, I wasn't moved - I've been turned into a monster by my mothers constant praise and the loving attention of misguided boys - what's wrong with me!

This is supposed to be a diary, and I don't subscribe to the IDEAS school of diary writing. But ideas are more sexually exciting; they're not for bedtime.

What's the point of running away from this town? I'm not big enough. There'll always be the spectre of the so-called 'strong person' to haunt me ... those who revel in their strength and others' weaknesses. Apart from anything else, this is BORING!!!! People who proclaim that they 'never get colds' or that they're tough and all that ... SO WHAT? Where's the punchline? If there is any kind of strength that I aspire to, it's the humble relentlessness of the grain of sand ... as opposed to the fascist march across my europe ... why bother to strike first? That kind of strength rebounds upon the tyrant when they've depleted themselves ... the wider you spread your borders, the harder it is defend them ... and all you achieve is the reduction of what could have amused you to rubble. But I'm speaking from a position of sadness, it's true ... I don't believe my own words. Sometimes the tyrant simply wins and lives a life of luxury. There is no natural punishment. There is no reward for being interested in things that aren't ... directly pleasurable ... as they say about Colette, 'The provencals were beyond good and evil' ... art has no morals ... in fact, it is impeded by them ... to be continued when I know something. Writing is only craft; the moral dimension is indifferent, not an impedence.

Who conceived of the will to power? Nietzsche, grovelling in his bedroom ... or rather, his sanatorium ... but what significance does that have? He was the first to realise that philosophical 'strength' comes from weakness.

If I waste all my time distracting my friends with jokes, so what? It's my function to distract them from the abyss - after all, that's what girls are for, isn't it?* So you claim they weren't looking into the abyss until they met me - well, so what! Everybody needs some kind of role in life and I'm one of those who creates their own niche. I believe in the beehive model of society - speaking of which, I had my photo taken inside parliament a few days ago. There is something very serious to me about parliament. I'd like to waste my time as a 'lackey' guiding people around the parliament building and informing them in a serious, even hushed, tone of their duties as citizens ... if only the bureaucracy could spread even further! Kafka, did you know that we would come to experience a nostalgic longing for bureaucracy like this? It seems like a distant golden age, now that the waves of capitalism are battering the rocky foundation of the parliament building - I would be a martyr for them! In the bureaucratic sense, that is. I would crush all my emotions, my inner life, in order to be a good bureaucrat; I would be ground into dust, I would become a gentle and doddering skeleton, I would abuse my power within the limits that it was possible, and above all else I would never be fired, I would never be told to smile and be given lectures on 'customer service', I would only have to be a dead soul, not a ridiculously animated corpse.

*Levinas et al?

Are you filled with impotent rage? Are you ready for an awkward evening? Then this is the video for you ('China Beach'). It only takes a few seconds to load thanks to my programming expertise. And for a while, goodbye, I just feel too stupid to write anything any more. I only want to 'kiss you gentle, squeeze and hug you tight.' I'm young, I know, but even so, I've really learnt a lot less than you'd expect.

DECEMBER 26 2001

Praline. Eggs. Pavlova. I had three enormous meals yesterday. My lunch cost $95 dollars. I spent the evening with Jess, Jacob, Shannon and Indira. The mosquitoes were biting but everyone else used the insect repellent before me and I had to scrape it out of the lid and smear it over my arms. Jess's house is almost in the woods. The atmosphere was that of polite imperialists in the artificially lush garden of an English bungalow in late nineteenth century India. The horrendous feast we had spread out in front of us was the cream we had skimmed from Indian society, leaving them only watery milk to exist on. Jess et al kept mentioning the pleasure of not seeing one's family, in the way that colonials might nervously and jokingly refer to the heat and poverty endured by their servants - the guilty return to the contrast which makes wealth pleasurable.

Let's hope that Duane's ordeal - having to read WILLIAM BURROUGHS - is over soon. I couldn't understand what he was talking about re Crime and Punishment, but WILLIAM BURROUGHS - sorry I'm too emotional, I can't talk about it anymore.

I bought a few CDs today for $11.95 at Real Groovy. (I got a Discman for Christmas, PLUS a CD holder, AND a strapless bra, AND the MLA handbook! That's an entire book of instructions on how to write footnotes!) Anyway yeah like I was saying, I got Cyndi Lauper's greatest hits, 'Outrageous' by Kim Fowley, a lame Troggs CD, a worse Astrud Gilberto CD, and the single of 'Unpretty' by TLC. Yep that's right, I found Cyndi Lauper's greatest hits for $11.95! I bet all the record collectors will be DROOLING.

In what way are you perfect? How do you reject the doctrine of self esteem? Will you answer me when I call you? How fast do you read? Are you willing to exploit ruthlessly? Do you read what I write but pretend that you don't? I would hate it if you told the truth. Do people sometimes accuse you of insincerity? When you are ranking people from 1 to 10? This was your finest minute. 'Bridles are sooner made than horses'; 'I pray better, and preach better, when I am angry' - Luther.

Is everyone too dumb, or too hip?

The physical presence of someone - their existence in the same room - lends to their perfection concreteness.