|
[I am on trial and] I will tell everything.
I am writing this for myself, ------------------------------------------------------------- but let others and all my judges read it, [if they want to]. This is a confession [a full confession.] I am writing for myself, for my own needs and therefore I will not keep anything a secret.
|
FRIDAY NOVEMBER 30 Why is it that I don't write here much anymore? Because I hate weblogs, I hate myself, and I hate you! My friend, who I now can't name, seems to have taken HIS webdiary off the internet because he didn't want anyone to read it, after I foolishly linked to it. I don't know why, it was so much better than mine. In other important news, Kraus has gotten his ****BA****!!! OK so now for my most exciting news of the last week, I drove a BMW. Big deal. Stefan rudely commented that it looked 'just like any old car, really.' I got drunk. We had to go up to Kingsland to get takeaways. It was after dark and we had to walk through a forest, and squeeze through a gap in a corrugated iron fence, then deal with modern technology at the takeaway bar, that is some game that I wasn't even playing just watching, and it made me so nervous because I was laboriously dumbly drunk. Drinking makes forests bigger, and games more nerve-wracking, and your voice sound better; but then hours later you can't walk a few metres without having to lie down, because you're so sick, and water makes you nauseous. Kids on the bus: Two kids sit down and autograph each others copy of the new testament. At the next stop three slightly cooler kids get on and sit a few seats in front of them.
Cool kid to Christian kid: Jew.
SUNDAY NOVEMBER 25 Is it really so wrong that I began a sentence today with 'I don't mean to come off like a eugenicist, but ...'
Or what about this conversation? I was watching King Kapisi on TV, and all his band and friends were acting tough. It was so hilarious. But if you were in the bar with them, you couldn't really laugh in their face, because guess what? They might kill you. Jess is tall and brown, and wearing a green T-shirt, and jeans, and sneakers ... he's like a star, it's impossible that he could be my friend! He was leaning on the bench in my kitchen, as if it was perfectly natural that he should be there, despite being so clean and attractive! And Shaun is so debonair these days too. By remaining in Auckland, my friends have raced past me in sophistication and beauty, but they tolerate me anyway, because they've become so very graceful and polite ... it's like hanging around with rich people! Rich people're so kind and they always buy everyone's meals on their gold mastercard. And they don't mind that you're poor, they just want to make you feel comfortable and forget all about your awkwardness. You're seventeen and you sit with them at tables in Parnell, outside, ordering mussels, (they choose for you), and if you haven't talked for a while, they turn to you and say 'Maryann, what do you think?' And then you sort of sneer and look down at your food and say something to show off, and they actually seem impressed! Rich people crave disorder, because their lives are so boring. And you long to live in their ultra-clean houses, just eating.
SATURDAY NOVEMBER 22 I am in no mood to write anything here, because it is pointless. Never use the word desperados without thinking first! Be prepared for redundancy at all times! Slaver for the future! Collect trinkets! Listen to your inner junky! Follow these simple rules, and you will be just like me. Yesterday I did absolutely nothing; I did so little I can't think of a single thing to write, except that I walked to Devonport in the pouring rain and got out a Patricia Highsmith novel, then I was reading it so fast in the falling down cafe that my hands were shaking, so I stopped reading. Treacherous body you dismay me again! THURSDAY NOVEMBER 20 My grace is sufficient for you. For in your weakness, my strength is revealed more completely. We went to a gallery opening. It was down on Customs St. I left after a few minutes.
TUESDAY NOVEMBER 20 I walked down to Devonport. It was so burning hot I was wearing a cotton printed skirt and a long sleeved blue shirt, you have to wear long sleeves to stop the sun burning you. I had my hair cut in a barbers. The lady said But yesterday I went up to K'Rd. I was trying to find Tim but guess what, his street was blocked off because a triad gang fought on it and one person died. 30 people were in the fight. It's true because I heard a radio report in a shop. Violet was outside but I was scared to come out because I'd already told her all my news.
SUNDAY NOVEMBER 18 I'll entertain you for a while with some excerpts from my diary of April-July 2000. This was just before Duane and I broke up, and he went to America. I was living at my Dad's house in Devonport.
WEDNESDAY APRIL 6 2000 I see that it is all ridiculous, that my rushing around is empty distraction. At least I have a continual awareness of how fruitless my actions are - perhaps this will pay off in a way I can't yet comprehend. **** UNDATED: I was under surveillance 24 hours a day. The policemen were a kind of glass tower, but it was nice to have company all the time. On the other hand, it was lonely. They tried to make out like I could still do anything, provided I had security clearance in advance - so I couldn't be spontaneous, well, not all the time, but so what, it's better than being shot or poisoned - but it made my life too apparent to me, I didn't like having to contemplate the question of my own worth all the time. TO BE CONTINUED IN ANOTHER CHILLING INSTALLMENT.
SATURDAY NOVEMBER 17 I want to tell you about my trip. I missed my friends so much. I'm too sad and I miss them too much to go to sleep. I can force myself to sleep now - but I wake up every hour. I'm disappointed in myself for having been able to force myself to sleep - I saw a girl just like myself in a vegetarian cafe in Wellington. Her saucer eyes were gazing everywhere then when the girl behind the counter moved suddenly, or swore, or something, my double stopped chewing, didn't swallow, and her gaze remained fixed on the counter girl, like a deer that watches without twitching; like somebody that's been soundly beaten; that's always a look that invites compassion and hatred.
MONDAY NOVEMBER 13 Person X, if you read this, I'm sorry for writing about you; but I wanted to establish the truth, in this case. Re: me 'going out with T. and S. at the same time'; that's not true either; but as my past is pretty dubious, I may as well do penance for something I haven't done as something I have ... I deserve it, so go ahead. In fact, if you wanted to make the accusation more representative of the actual level of my crimes, perhaps you should incorporate a third or fourth person or a monkey into the rumour ...
SATURDAY NOVEMBER 10 Weirdest and funniest thing to happen to me for a while ... Person X had access to Duane's e-mail account. Through no fault of X's own, I'm sure, X fell on the computer and typed in the username and password keys accidentally, as we all do from time to time. X saw:
Message 1:
Message 2:
Message 3:
Message 4:
Message 5: Duane sent all these messages to me at once when he was in a certain state, if you get what I mean ... anyway, X somehow DID NOT GET that the subject headings were JOKES and reported to someone who was pretty upset by it that I had 'given Duane a blow job.' But when the upset person reported back to me, I couldn't help but laugh. GOOD ONE DUANE. PS When I showed this to Duane to check that it was ok by him to publish his e-mails, he said 'Yeah but you should have given me a blow job.' GOOD ONE DUANE.
Anglo-Saxon words occur most often as the names for simple objects. Father and mother and children, house and home and hearth, the dawn, the day, the dusk, the night, the end.
A little slumber, a little sleep, a little
FRIDAY NOVEMBER 9 Rainy was sitting beside me at the computers under the metal umbrella. I was rubbing her neck and her head; she kept tipping her head back so that it was pushing into my hand; her hair felt brittle and soft. I couldn't press her head as hard as she wanted me to because when I did, I pushed her away and to the side. I felt like pushing my face into her arm; I can see why people would accuse us of being mock lesbians. Both Duane and Rainy were becoming more and more bored and more and more angry. I knew that the instant Rainy left, I would feel depressed and frightened. My hand was becoming tired and my shoulders felt tighter and tighter. I badly wanted someone to rub my shoulders but when I asked, Rainy said 'Yeah right' and Duane said 'No, I'm too bored.' I was reading a book of jokes. I was extremely happy. I said, 'Why don't you guys read a book instead of looking on these boring computers?' Simultaneously, Rainy said 'Where do you get off, Mrs Queen?' and Duane said, 'If we need your advice we'll ask for it.' AND THEN I WOKE UP Other fragments of conversation:
'I'm looking forward to going on a train to Auckland.' When humour reaches this height it blends laughter and tears so intimately together, in its view of the contrast of life's little yesterday and unknown to-morrow, that it becomes, not the lowest, but the highest form of literature. I'm sorry that my diary doesn't really stick to the point like it used to in the old days; that's just a sign I don't love you anymore.
THURSDAY NOVEMBER 8 I needed to get my files that I'd saved on the student computing system held over to next year. On November 12 all the accounts will be erased, unless you apply for yours to be held. I looked around the computer lab for one of the tutors with blue jackets, who are usually so overjoyed to be asked a question that it's painful; but there weren't any. The woman at the help desk on the ground floor looked something like a grown up arts student: dark, dyed, shoulder length hair and dark lipstick. When I mentioned the computing system she started to quiver; and before I could say very much she butted in,
'That's not my job.' THE END.
WEDNESDAY NOVEMBER 7 Last night I ate a good dinner: it was a caesar salad but the lettuce was so covered in mayonnaise, it tasted like cake; with tiny slivers of parmesan cheese over it; and anchovies that were so salty I didn't want to eat them, they made me feel sick. The people in the restaurant looked boring; everybody was gazing at the waiters with vacant expressions, as if they couldn't think of anything better to do but let their mouths hang slightly open and be amazed by the transportation of plates. I could hardly care about anyone there, even my friend; I stood in the art gallery foyer talking on the phone, leaning against the wall, acting like the restaurant owner's daughter. But that metaphor is so insufficient; I would like to provide you with something unknown to you, something from the world of science; I can only hope that you'll be able to bear another day without a satisfying metaphor somehow, in the way that you can stifle your hunger by walking or drinking water; and I apologise again, I'm like a 40 year old man ...
TUESDAY NOVEMBER 6 Started off the day by going home. I was interrupted from my organisational stupor later in the day by a phone call; 'Hi; I'm high; so I won't come to meet you.' The street outside seemed to rapidly dissolve; I heard a smash and then a car horn blaring on and on. There was nothing to be seen from the window; whether it was a victim of a heart attack slumped over their wheel or a simple rear end collision, resulting in a malfunction of the horn, I will never know. Yesterday when I opened the curtains I looked straight into the sun; I saw nothing but white - a nuclear explosion! The manifestation of God*. I am in the Garden of Eden; God descends in the cool of the evening**.
MONDAY NOVEMBER 6 I'm still getting slagged off, slagged off and then slagged off some more on the internet. True script from some 'Saved by the Bell' knock off I saw on TV:
'I got in a fight.' Bongoloid! (= member of Songbong.) My poor little interweb diary, you were only intended as an experiment in lifelessness!
SUNDAY NOVEMBER 5 We went out to the beach. I told Janus that I really hate the consistency of the weather down here, and he said 'What are you talking about? In Denmark, if you look out the window in the morning and it's fine, it will be fine all day.' I said, 'That's so oppressive.' He said, 'No, you can plan!' I said, 'But I think the plants will die. Subconsciously, I mean.' Later, we were up on the boardwalk above the beach. There was a bell with a sign underneath it saying SHARK ALERT BELL. It was operated by two strings hanging down from the clapper, running through pulleys about a foot apart, so you could rapidly ring the bell by alternately pulling each string. Janus suggested that the strings should be further apart, so that two people would be needed, preventing pranks. I said 'You would make a good bureaucrat.' He said, 'I won't take that as a compliment.' But it was a compliment. I just found out that Brent linked to my diary. So go read his.
FRIDAY NOVEMBER 2 Then he had these piano books. They had anti-rock comments scattered throughout. Several little entries read like 'The degradation of dogmatic folk rock after '68 showed that it already contained the seeds of its own decline.' Very disparaging. Dogmatic folk rock - you read it here first. THURSDAY NOVEMBER 1 "You go to bed with Tigers and you wake up with Lambs/ Their cruelty has melted In your hands." (From the back of 'Thursday' by The Puddle.) One kilometre under the sea on the ocean floor, there are food chains that are completely independent of the sun's energy. It used to be thought that all life depended on the sun. Tube like organisms contain bacteria in their 'stomachs.' These bacteria transform methane welling up through nearby volcanic vents into energy which becomes the basis for the local food chain. Other similar organisms create energy from sulfides, which can be obtained anywhere on the ocean floor; thus they could have evolved in any location, unlike the methane-dependent bacteria. At these depths, water heated by volcanic fissures can remain liquid at temperatures of up to 400 degrees centigrade (whereas at sea level it turns to steam at 100 degrees) because of the enormous pressure. On West Coast beaches, creatures like the sabelloid tubeworm and the common shrimp Palaemon affinis exist in tidal pools that are buffetted by six foot waves; the ocean beach is not protected by islands from the force of waves which originate miles out to sea. Yet they are sensitive; a slight disturbance of the near environment will cause them to retreat; the tubeworm furls its parasol and snaps back into its tube. It's a question of scale; while the rockpools appears wild and turbulent at a certain level of consideration, on the scale of millimetres covered by the tiny shrimp, the sea around it is infinite and completely still.
An index to old kitty entries, my links page, and my ontological struggles. XX ... and the Rock City Rocker index |
|||||