CONCISE EXPOSITION OF SOME MEDITATIONS ON ICE

Monday October 25 Okay Liz's party. This is what did before. Got there after 12.30. Folina looked beautiful, purple shirt. Steve arrived, fell into chair glamorously with legs crossed. Shy of Jenny, too much of a pretty mind, unrecognised genius. Begged for alcohol, stood persistently in front of Meren as she drank a mysteriously procured can in the kitchen. Talked to Anton.

"This is weird. I feel weird."
"I feel weird too."

Left at 4 am, ran to the corner, changed shoes from red/blue/white to black, ran down a hundred boring steps, ran past the furniture megastore, ran along the street above Arc, ran down Jetty Street, unlocked the door and ran up the stairs.

What shall we talk about today?

Thursday October 25 I used to think it would be so exciting to meet people who went to university. I'd be able to talk to them. I visited O'Rorke Hall when I was 17, with my 21 year old boyfriend, Mark. We walked across the quadrangle at the bottom of the hostel. Mark was trying to act nonchalant. A couple of fat straight boys were throwing a volleyball over a net. I was almost writhing with excitement.

We had to wait for the lift in the lobby. It was cold and smelt of dry, dusty concrete; I felt like the building was freshly broken from the ground; I was on edge.

Today I was sitting in the cafetaria outside the central library with Rainy and her friends Richard and the infamous Matt Couch. This building, freshly built, affords me much more pleasure than any of the people in it. Richard said to Matt,

'Well I might have passed ...'
'Come on, is this one of those Richard 'might have passed''s?'
'No, really mate ... B- tops, I reckon. I think I would've pulled through, though, I wrote a bit at the end about how it wouldn't work, because the Indonesians wouldn't accept being paid 90 cents a day or whatever if they had protection under the law, so those companies are just dreaming if they argue for globalisation and equivalency. I was comparing it to that Spanish company, where the workers own shares, and how that wouldn't work out under globalisation ... So he'll go for that, but mate, I think I might have screwed up a bit right at the end there, because I threw in a bit about rugby.'
'No! You didn't'
'I did ... he'll probably think I'm a real rugbyhead ... you can tell he's the type of intellectual who'd be completely sick of rugby ...'
'Well, what'd you write about?'
'Oh, you know, I wrote about how changing the rules advantages certain different people. Like with the new tackling rules, faster players have a bigger advantage. And I compared that to the changes in the legal system ...'
'Oh mate, he'll go for it. He'll think, look at this guy ... trying to apply it to his own life ... he'll just be glad you tried.'
'... mmm ... Maybe.'
I asked,
'What are you studying?'
Richard answered 'Anthropology. I'm doing a few papers in law.'
'Specifically, I was wondering, what was paper was that exam for?'
'Oh, right ... uh ... Jurisprudence ... What are you studying?'
'I'm writing a PhD in English.'
'Oh. Wow.'
'So is your lecturer, is he ... does he come from quite a left wing perspective?'
'Oh, hell yeah. He's really left wing. He's really into this idea that the mistake that modern jurisprudence makes is that, they carry over the idea of private property into international law. And ... that's just not an analogy that really holds up. Not at that scale.'
'Oh, right.'
'Oh, he's not really extreme or anything ... he's not against private property. He says you can still have private property, you just have to be more careful about how you ... apply it.'
I felt very cold. I wondered how I could give an impression of warmth. I was racking my brains for something to say that would allow me to seem even slightly tender. The concrete of the cafetaria was clean and newly cut. The pale blue neon of the cafe 'Cumberland' seemed like the kind of simultaneous warmth and coldness that might represent the austere kindness of God. There was no rush; the noise of people talking seemed to be very superficially painted over the barely audible hum of the sign. Summoning the energy to appear interested was like hoping for one last footstep foward from a wind-up toy slowing down towards the end of its cycle but at the same time, I didn't feel any fear; I simply wanted to appear interested for his sake, so that he wouldn't have to be unsettled.
'Do you know Ina?' I asked.
'Ina? Oh, yeah! She's in a few of my classes. Small girl.'
'Yeah.'
'Oh, she's a sharp one! I think she's going to go into criminal law. She'll kick their arses in court!'

Wednesday October 24 I'm so bored I'm going to write here. THIS IS A PRETTY PASS. Where are you, all you people? Are you out driving around in your 'cars', fucking your 'girlfriends', taking your 'drugs'? What's going on with me? I've eaten so much sugar that my eyelids are quivering, I feel like my tongue is crystallised and made of rice syrup. I'm hanging out with Rainy, waiting for Pat Kraus, he's hanging out with his old friends, Di and Beth and Steve, infinitely better friends than me, it's hard to identify the reasons, perhaps my frozen cynicism and statue-like quality are the figures of the problem. I'm so cynical that I believe in love, writing on the internet forum I argue that free love is impossible! and that you must give in to romantic love, abandon your sentimental day dreams.

Tuesday October 23 DO YOU LIKE ME? The bench looked wet, but perhaps it was just because of the dark wood. But what if we went to sit there, and it was soaked and uncomfortable? What if Janus was uncomfortable, but didn't dare to say anything, then remembered being uncomfortable, and got tired of me? I decided it was best just to say nothing, anyway. I'd seen that kind of bench before; they just looked wet, because they were rotten. There was no need to betray my anxiety at the bench being wet; surely it was dry; we should both act as if we didn't notice anything.

But when we got there, Janus immediately leant forward and touched the crumbling wood. So he was afraid, after all. I impulsively copied him; it was dry. I wanted to dispel his fears, as he still seemed doubtful; there was no need for this awkwardness;
"No, it just looks wet!"

Monday October 22 The night before last I was drinking port with Matt when the chain closing Liquorland rattled. 'That's the gateway to my soul,' he said. 'I never get beyond Liquorland.'

The next day it was overcast. Gilbert said 'The atmosphere's strange today. The air is heavy and it seems hard to breathe. Ina was saying so too. There was a murder up on Stafford St. She saw the blood and the police tape.'

Siobhan's mother, Linda, died. I found out that morning by e-mail. Linda was genuinely charming; she had multiple sclerosis and she was kind, it was easy to tell why Siobhan is nice when you met her. I was living up with my Mum, two houses away from her, a few years ago, getting better from feeling sick, and Linda didn't know that I was sick, but every time I visited her she was cheerful, she made me feel better, and ashamed, so much better; usually she was watering flowers, or something like that, she had a really funny way of talking. I can't believe it. I spent the day crying like a girl; I was upset by trivialities, I couldn't resist being disturbed by the relentless drone of ... So I was crying like a baby; I took lots of panadol and lay on my bed and ate sugary ice-cream; my headache got worse; by the end of the day my neck was so sore, I could hardly turn my head.

Last night it came to me in a dream:
Life is better
If you obey a few simple rules

The sun was shining. I walked along Cumberland Street towards university. The hills at the end of the street looked fresh and cool.

Wednesday October 17 Read the first book of the Iliad translated by George Chapman, 1598, revised 1610. This is what he says to his readers, at least to those who abhor Poetry, as we begin:

Forth then, ye Mowles, sonnes of the earth, abhorre her;
Keepe still on in the durty vulgar way,
Till durt receive your soules, to which ye vow;
And with your poison'd spirits bewitch our labours.
Ye cannot so despise us as we you.
Not one of you above his Mowlehill lifts
His earthly Minde ...your Asinine soules
(Proud of their burthens) feele not how they gall.
But as an Asse that in a field of weeds
Affects a thistle and falles fiercely to it,
That pricks and gals him, yet he feeds and bleeds -
Forbeares a while and licks, but cannot woo it
To leave the sharpnes, when (to wreake his smart)
He beats it with his foote, then backwards kickes
Because the Thistle gald his forward part,
Nor leaves till all be eate, for all the prickes,
Then falles to others with as hote a strife,
And in that honourable warre doth waste
The tall heate of his stomacke and his life:
So, in this world of weeds you worldlings taste
Your most-lov'd dainties, with such warre buy peace,
Hunger for torment, vertue kicks for vice;
Cares for your states do with your state increase,
And, though ye dreame ye feast in Paradise,
Yet Reason's Day-light shewes ye at your meate -
Asses at Thistles, bleeding as ye eate.

Yeah, you fucking asses.

A book list

Saturday October 13 In my diary I wrote, "we have nothing in common, not even food," when I was trying to understand a distant acquaintance. Intuitively, from fever, I must have meant something like, "we don't even share humanness together." But the insight was greater. You must obey your instincts, even if they lead you to commit crimes. Because that's fate.

I am renting a house; I'm paying for it myself, from the money I get for being 'myself'; I felt so proud that when I heard someone running across the road towards me, I turned around, I was sure they were running to summon me. Where else would they be running to? But I'm still fat.

Or too skinny, depending on which is more degrading.

"Am I too fat, or am I too skinny?"
"... you're too nice."
"No. Am I too fat, or am I too skinny?"
"..."
"Too fat, or too skinny?"
"I don't know, neither."
"Too ... FAT ... or too ... SKINNY?"
"..."
"Too fat, I mean, or, too 'skinny'?"
"Ow! Stop doing that!"
"I had to torture you, because you didn't answer.
"What, are you mad now?
"It's a game. Like I used to play with my friend, "are you an elephant, or are you a mouse?" It doesn't mean anything.
"I'm telling you this so you'll know I wasn't torturing you seriously. It's just a test to see whether how far you will go without questioning the game ... "
"But this is completely different to saying 'are you an elephant, or are you a mouse.' You do have anxieties about your body."
"I know. That's what makes it even greater. You have to come up with something really clever, or submit to being tortured. You see, you should accept your torture in that situation. It's a sign of your understanding. It's very admirable."
"But you hurt me. Why can't you just be nice?"
"No, it is nice. It's a game."
"..."

Wednesday October 10 I am moving into Meren's old house tomorrow.

I don't like talking to mere acquaintances, because I can't be physically sadistic towards them.

Dancing is a beautiful sport. There are movements and rules and a goal and a team, without competition.

Listening to music from before 1966 is like listening to pre-capitalist music.

I don't know how to be silent when my heart is speaking. That's Dostoevsky's characteristic, not mine, by the way.

Saturday October 7 Just before the top of the cycle the ferris wheel is frightening. The discoloured white paint is peeling back over the rusted metal of the thin girders. The seat lurches forward as you fall over the top of the cycle and begin to move down again, which is a relief because now you don't have to see in front of you a web of buckling and cracking girders. On the downwards journey the mechanism is hidden and you're gliding forwards, outwards, over the field of the oval, over the damp grass and the distant industrial buildings.

Besides the fair is a moveable billboard for a radio station. The DJs are depicted as anime-style cartoon characters, the girl with a small waist and round breasts painted in sure lines. You remember your achilles heel.

An index to old kitty entries, my links page, and my ontological struggles. XX

... and the Rock City Rocker index