i am torn between the
precision of Formality, and
the simplicity of
Informality.

shall i write as i speak,
ignoring all conventions, and bedamn'ing
you who try to jam me
in a box.

or

Shall I write
as I was taught, and
color between the
lines.

A gray box with words inside by Bobby Burgess. You won't regret it. [Thanks, Sun.]

second draft: nothing to say

words in a tumbling barrel
a heart that is a cliche
fifteen minutes to go
still, nothing for me to say.

you don't listen, anyway.

first draft: i have nothing to say

fifteen minutes to go
the words are tumbling in my head
but not knowing what to say
my heart is a cliche -
overblown roses on st valentine's day

stood in front of you
almost in tears clinging to the chair
"i have nothing to say," i said,
"i am no one you know
why should you listen
to anything i say?
you wouldn't, anyway, so
i have nothing to say"

i wept instead, and
i am weeping still.

Last two weeks of the semester. Everyone knows what that's like, so I won't elaborate. I'll be back when I reckon myself fancy free. That won't be long - I haven't any exams. Woo hoo.

[deleted]

It was nothing.

My brain won't shut up.

Crap. Big weekend of rewrites. Think you I could finish an essay and two unit plans in 47 hours? (I'm losing one hour because of Daylight Saving this weekend) I'm going to try, at any rate.

I spent the last 30 hours or so thinking up absolutely horrid things to say to him, should I ever I run into him again.

"Hmm. Whatever."
"Don't talk to me."
"Go away, I have no wish to speak to you."
"Go to hell."
"You inconsiderate, selfish, unthinking, unfeeling, superficial, shallow, insincere, untrustworthy, close-minded, spineless, cowardly fool."
"Leave me alone, you self-righteous jackass."
"You are such a blockhead."
"You poor deluded fool. You've lost the most precious thing in the world - my good opinion of you. And me."
"Go drown yourself."
I especially liked, "I don't know you anymore, perhaps I never did. But that's okay because I have no wish to ever know you now."

About ten minutes ago, I realised I'm wasting precious energy on a person that did not deserve me. But realising that doesn't stop me from being angry. I have this terrible urge to claw at his face, slap him silly, pour glasses of beer over his head, smash a pie in his face, stomp on his foot with my stilettos and then stalk off in a beautiful huff in a devastating dress.

I can see it'll be a while before I can react calmly at the mention of his name.

But you know what? I really enjoyed thinking up horrible things to say and do. It made me feel good.

Everything happens for a reason. Everything happens for a reason.

I have got to remember that.

Superduperglorious Friend must have thought to protect me by opting not to tell me about it. But I found out anyway, and not from him either. I had to confront him with it, as soon as I found out. So, what if he is with that flirt of a girl. It's not like I will run into them on a daily basis. So, that's okay.

My coping mechanism should snap into place any minute now. I'm just waiting ...

Gawd, I hate him for making me close my heart, just that much more, to the world. I would say, "Oh, I feel so betrayed", only that would be overly dramatic. I'm just very, very hurt. I thought I meant something to him. Let's face it, when you find out that the first person you would have thought would know which university you go to and which course you are doing didn't know all that and instead turns around and says, "You go to uni?! I thought you were working," you're bound to feel very hurt - and that's to say the very least. I'm surprised he actually remembered my name.

What am I? Chopped liver?! An old newspaper, to be discarded and forgotten once the moment has passed?!

Gawd, I feel like such a fool. Oh, my heart is not broken. Oh, no. It's just dented a lot.

Crap. Just crap.

What a blockhead.

What is science? Science is ..

To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
- William Blake (1757-1827), Auguries of Innocence

There's an idea.

"Good morning!"

"Humpf!" I stalked past Rita, bleary eyed because I couldn't get to sleep till about 1am.

"Not a good morning?"

"Rita, it's 8 am, and I haven't had a cup of tea, much less breakfast. This is such an unearthly hour to have a meeting. 8am! I got up at 5.30 this morning to get to uni for a 8am meeting! On my free day, no less! It's a good thing you made it a breakfast meeting! Where's the food?! Gawd, lead me to the food! This is an impossible time for coherent thoughts. I want my tea. Give me ten minutes to eat, drink my tea, digest my food, and I'll be human again. Where's the food?!"

Who's not a bear when they slept badly the night before?

Glory, glory, what a hell of a way to die

Good lord! In four part harmony too! Men have sadistic humour.

Father dear,

With September 11, the conflict in Israel, the rumblings of war way out in the Arabic States, the Washington sniper, the Bali bombing and now, the shootings on the Clayton campus of Monash University, do you suppose you could manage a double rainbow every day this week to cheer everyone up, and maybe a little angelic communication for those in pain and confusion?

Think I'll go light a candle tomorrow, and maybe say a round of rosary to Our Lady. To be doubly sure that I and mine are safe, I'm inscribing power symbols on everyone and everything I come in contact with.

And while you're at it, I don't suppose you could manage some rain too? I hear we're facing water restrictions this summer.

Love You heaps.

Livy

Fly me to the moon,
and let me play among the stars.
Let me see what spring is like,
on Jupiter and Mars.

On Presentation Night six, seven years ago, on my last official function at high school, I sang Fly me to the moon with the school orchestra. Two lines into the song, my mind became a blank and I was reduced to humming the tune into the microphone, with the violins making horrible screeching noises behind me.

Now, I sing it softly to myself in pensive moments and ignore Jason when he laughs at my ad-libs, "And you yell at me because of my vibrato! You're putting extra notes where it's not wanted!"

What is it like? Spring, on Jupiter and Mars, I mean. Is it warm and pink, or is it blowsy and wet with wind?

My feet won't be still. Dance with me.

blackeyesunrise by Charlie Fan.

"how
could
i fly
sitting
in a
sea of green anchors"

He's beautiful.

As Lydia Bennett would say, "Oh, lord! I am so bored."

How can anyone watch Survivor: Thailand? It's soul destroying.

But then, I tend to bury my head in the sand when confronted with blatant conflict.

Among the pile of books I picked up at a local fete (an entire bag for $2!) today is a copy of Mendelssohn's Elijah. It's musty and yellowed. There are sections cut out from the introduction. The pages are loose, the entire thing is almost falling apart. But I crowed when I found in it among other yellowed scores and books on gardening and cooking. I have never heard Elijah, nor do I know much about Mendelssohn. I'm not fond of oratorios, either (of which Elijah is one) - I ran a mile when they announced they were going to do Handel's Judas Maccabeus, and I would run another mile if they were to do The Messiah again. So, logically, I shouldn't have bought it. But we all know that females are illogical. In that sense, it was perfectly logical for me to buy Elijah. No, you needn't work it out. Just go with it.

Let me entertain you, let me make you smile

What is going on? All the sudden I'm on the Top 100 list on ricebowljournals?! All the sudden I'm getting hits?! Fair enough, prolly half of the hits were me, because I'm bored stiff this week (procastinating as usual since I have fifty million assignments to finish before the end of the next week), but that only explained half of the hits.

I am bemused. I am also feeling pressured. With hits, comes expectations. When it comes to personal writing, I don't like feeling pressured that way. I always feel I shall disappoint, that I may not live up to expectations, that the special energy that I have when I write will vanish and never come back to me, that y'll would figure me out as a fraud.

But I shouldn't worry. Next week, I could be anonymous again. Wouldn't that be nice?

So darlings, how was your week? I'm re-reading Thursday's Child by Rumer Godden. Now I want to go to the ballet and watch dancing feet, and have my feet dance beneath my seat.

Then there was a star danced

Emily Goddard is only just sixteen, but already, she has in her the makings of a star. As Golde in Fiddler on the Roof, she was fussy, curt, practical, ambitious, unsentimental, everything a Jewish mother ought to be. When she played Bernando in West Side Story, one could be forgiven if one thought she really was a he. Because I have known her a while now, I have taken her talent for granted. Familiarity breeds contempt, you see, or rather just more familiarity. Beauty becomes commonplace if you see it every day.

There was a VCE Drama Solo Performance showcase last week. Emily, as a grieving wife and mother after Guernica, if it didn't exactly bring me to tears, made my heart ache - especially as she chose to intersperse happier times between highly strung scenes. It was a very mature, heart wrenching performance, heightened with just a large, dark red velvet scarf draped in a myriad of ways to indicate scene changes and very clever, simple, lightning effects. A performance light years ahead of her peers, I have seen none to equal it in her age group in that genre.

I saw her at rehearsal earlier this week in blackrock, a play Tall Dark Guy is putting on in December. It's a very ambitious play, full of themes that I know I wouldn't been able to handle, much less understood and acted in front of an audience, when I was her age. Em's playing Rachel against Evan's Jarred, and even at rehearsal with its frequent stops and starts, I couldn't take my eyes off her.

You mark my words. Emily Goddard is a name you will come to know very well one day.

Where are you going, Mr Potato Head?

loop, loop, loopy day
what am i doing?
where am i going?
what is that? where is that?
what what what?
loop, loop, loopy day.

Mr Potato Head, what are we doing?
where are we going?
what are we saying?
what are you praying?
what what how what?
loop, loop, loopy day
in a loop, loop, loppy way.

Oh, my eyes shy away from the beauty of thy piercing eyes

I have had a crush on him from the moment I laid eyes on him, some three years ago. Isn't he a pretty boy? Completely out of my league, but oh, such a joy to watch.

I'm afraid I might have terrible stalking tendencies after all.

I could be an excellent music critic if I knew what I was talking about.

"Oh, I thought the orchestra was fantastic. Tremendous energy and verve and .. and ... and ... passion. Very spirited. Did you say some of them were only 15? Really? You don't say! Fantastic. Huge talent. Brussels adored them? Why, how very kind of them. The violins have wonderful technique. That Beethoven piece is awfully hard, but just look at those violins go at them. Wowee. Hot damn, man. Did you see the percussionist? That cymbal player .. how intense was he?! I feared greatly for his nose, so intent and close was he to his instrument. Did you notice how energetic they were? And they kept it up the entire two and a half hours! Incredible. That oboe in the beginning of Miserere?! Wasn't that the most priceless thing you've ever heard?! Such humour in the piece! You know I thought that last note just before the tenor came in sounded like a musical fart! Oh, it was brilliant! The choir? Oh, the choir was none too bad. Oh, but the orchestra .. the orchestra was FANTASTIC. I clapped hard for the choir, but I stood for the orchestra. Brilliant. Fantastic!"

I was at a concert this evening. Carmina Burana, done energetically, is always a crowd pleaser.

"Hmm .. I wasn't terribly fond of the soprano. Lovely tone, and effortless top notes .. wowee, did you hear her Dulcissime?!! She made it sound so easy. But there was no .. oomph! It's the climax of the entire piece and she sang it as if she was just out for a stroll. Oh-I'm-terribbly-good-see-how-effortless-I'm-singing-these-horrendous-high-Cs-and-Es-why-it's-a-piece-of-cake-don't-you-just-love-me mentality. All I can say is, she's young. Too young, perhaps. Gosh, she was boring! Now, the baritone! Oh, he was good. I liked him a lot. It was obvious he was having a marvelous time and didn't mind letting us know that he was having fun. Oh, he was jolly one, that baritone."

Jason was part of the choir. So were a few friends from high school. I even knew someone in the orchestra - a brilliant violinist, but oh such an ass at times.

"I thought you started off really really well. Big bang. Great stuff. But then by the time you got to the third movement, it had lost some of the energy. It was patchy - some absolutely fantastic stuff .. others .. you were all over the shop. I could see the men going off in their own little world in In Taberna, as usual, and not paying the least attention to the beat. You were racing ahead at a fine rate, no one watching Peter at all! Von Engellant ... that final Heil! .. I nearly jumped! Brilliant stuff there! Your Hahas were lame. Such an anti-climax they were! You lost me at Veni, veni, venias. Bluueppphhh .. that was boring. Fair enough, you had been standing for nearly forty minutes in very cramped conditions by then, and you were tired. Ecce Gratum ... no one was watching the beat. It came out so weak. Oh, the tenors' fault, was it? Ahh .. that explains it. I'm not sure I liked the way you sang semper crescis. Yes, I know it's meant to be breathy and soft and all. From where I was sitting, I didn't hear the excitement behind the words. You need to have that excitement and intensity straight after the bellowing of O fortuna, velut luna, status variabilis bit. It could have been more breathy, more intense. Me? Should have sung? In that crowd of 400 voices, with barely enough room to stand, let alone read my score properly, besides having to sing that awful Blanzifor? Hahaha. Nah-uh, no, thank you. I was very happy where I was."

A definite glorious time, had by all. Oh, that was a terrific, rousing concert!

Is dehydration going to be a problem if you just can't stop crying?

Insomniac's raging and venting about the third break this year in her turbulent relationship. Like the symphathetic and supportive girlfriend that I am, I agreed with everything she said.

"Yes, men are scum. Yes, you're right, he's an inconsiderate bastard. Yes, indeed, he needs to get a real life. Yes, true, he must realise he has to get off his bum and do something. No, you don't say. Why, the lout. Yes, you're right, you do have family to consider. Yes, you're right to demand a break. He won't let you go, though? Oh, how frustrating. Who does he think he is? How controlling. Yes, it's not fair, definitely, not when you're so obliging to him in many, many ways. Oh, men are scum. Yes, indeed, they are."

Then I asked her, "Are you sure it's the right thing to do? I know you don't want to be tied down and all that anymore, but have you realise that it'll take a lot out of you? Nothing will ever be the same again. You can't expect normality with him anymore. You can't sit down and laugh and talk like before."

She paused a little. "I'd rather it this way than make myself miserable all the time being with him."

"I told him once ...I'd rather be miserable with you, than be miserable without you. Sometimes, I still believe that to be true .. for me."

"I used to think that. But I'm really worn out now. It's like how old rubbers get worn out when the surface is too rough. You keep shouting at your dog to get it moving, but after a while you just give up."

"Yeah, no point shouting at the deaf, I suppose."

I don't see him anymore. He has never written anything, so in effect, everything is dead. We have closed up shop and melted away. I suppose I should expect it. I was pretty harsh when I last spoke to him.

"You are important to me. But if you're going to make excuses and in the end, make me think and realise that I'm not important to you, well then, there is only one option isn't it? There is only so much that I can give."

It aches, of course. Sometimes I cry short frustrated self-pitying tears. Sometimes I rage silently and write hurtful unsent letters. Sometimes I mourn for what it was and for what could have been. But sometimes I smile to the sun and remember sweetly. Sometimes I send loving thoughts. Sometimes I hold him close and then reluctantly, let him go to do as he will. All through that, it aches.

But life goes on, doesn't it? Life always goes on. Everything falls apart, but life always goes on.

"Romance department?! Hahaha. To be honest, Pamie? Right now, I seriously cannot be bothered doing anything about it."

My heart isn't in it.

I have had to lie on the bed to zip my jeans up. My jeans are beyond tight. They are nearing strangulation. This is not good.

"Dad. I have not put on weight. It's just a ... phase. I'm developing curves ...voluptuous curves. I think they're very becoming. Jason, if don't stop giggling this minute, I'm going to bash you up. Dad, really. Yes, I know it's been two years. So maybe it's not a phase, exactly. I'm not overweight, of course. Definitely not. I'm not .. fat .. just ... womanly. Look, I have hips! I'm sure I've always wanted hips. Good child-bearing hips, don't you think. I understand the hourglass look has become quite fashionable. Dad, why are you rolling on the ground like that? Dad, it's not funny! Daaaaddddd! Stop it. Dad. Stop. Dad, this is very undignified. Dad, think of the example you're setting Darren. Jason, SHUT UP. Mum, say something! Ooooohhhhhh!"

The thing about the written word is that it's not visual. I want instant gratification, damn it.

There's no way I can write about jumping around hysterically and have folks understand and 'see' what I'm talking about. I mean, half the precious moments that happen in life, are location moments! You know, as in location jokes? There was this one time ... never mind. It's a location thing.

Ooooooopppfhhhhh!!!

I really should be on stage.

I stunned Shannon and Ivan into silence with, "Omg, omg, omg!! There's this absolute HUNK of a graduate engineer at work."

They visibly inched away from me.
Wonder why.
Perhaps it was the hysterical jumping in front of Union House, the wild hand waving and the heaving chest.

Shannon avoided my eyes.
Ivan took his mobile out to call Gerry.
I giggled to myself and almost began skipping along the damp pavement.

What was the hunk's name again?

Writing a book collaboratively with 20 other writers puts me to mind of the committee that designed the camel. So many different opinions, so many different ideas to incorporate, so many different personalities to deal with. With six weeks left before our launch, I still do not how the whole thing is going to turn out.

My chapter is not writing itself. I tried cajoling. I tried nursing it in bits. Now, I'm trying to beat it to submission. It's not working.

Deadline for second drafts was yesterday.

I'm tearing at my hair, of course. No doubt about that.

On another note, Mum and Dad are springing for a shopping spree in Kuala Lumpur! In the 8 years that I have passed through Kuala Lumpur on my way to and from Melbourne, never have I actually stayed in Kuala Lumpur for more than two hours - and that was at the airport, waiting for my connecting flight. Amazing, really.

What on earth happened this week?!

Monday. Attended Team Building workshop. Talked of candles, strange looking trees and Freud with evil brilliant medical twins and brilliant Media girl. Said evil brilliant medical twins dragged me to the Medical Faculty to gatecrash a VCE Maths Methods tutorial for some strange reason. Said evil brilliant medical twins also tried to convince me to gatecrash a barbeque. I decided to go do some work instead.

Tuesday. Active Uni Day. Dancesport (yummy Latin Dance instructor), Initiative Games (what do you mean, I have to start all over again? John Paul, you're mean!), Wheelchair Basketball (amazing how boys can turn a friendly game into a cutthroat one), Tai Chi (this is putting me to sleep!) and Bocce - Italian bowls (omg, this is addictive. No, you stupid bowl, don't go there! Argh!!). Elected Education Faculty Rep and the Program's Communications Moderator - by default. HAH!

Wednesday. Wanted to attend a Cross Cultural Communication workshop. Got to uni only to find out it was on Thursday (after sitting in an empty classroom for 20 minutes). Sent off a humpfy email to co-ordinator. Decided to stay at uni and finish a reflective evaluation due the next day. First time in forever I handed in an assignment the day before it was due.

Thursday. Lynbrook Estate - Water Sensitive Urban Design. Tried to get my head around stormwater management systems, water treament systems, and freshwater catchment systems. Eastern Treatment Plant, where I was educated on sewage and sewerage. Went home, absolutely paranoid about biological pathogens and its associated diseases - Hep A, Hep B. Obsessively washed my hands and every part of me that I thought had possibly came into contact with sewage spray that day.

Friday. Western Treatment Plant, locally known as the Werribee Poo Farm. Horrible traffic. Horrible wet day. Horribly long day. Absolutely blown away by the size of WTP, its beauty, and the abundant birdlife on the estate. Tried very hard to retain everything that my supervisor was saying to us about the place - a RAMSAR site, a JAMBA site, a CAMBA(?) site, protected wetlands, 270 bird species, Siberian waders, pelicans, ducks, swans, Abeerdeen Angus, Herefords, Merino sheep ... ooooh. Figured I needed to get a bird book so I could point out the 270 species of birds that can be found on site. Now tremendously excited with the prospect and scope of envrionmental education.

Saturday. Exhausted. Slept.

Sunday. Trying to write an essay. Failing miserably. Procastinating by blogging. Now contemplating gatecrashing a Darkzone (similar to Skirmish and Paintball, only with lasers) date tonight to shoot at people.

Trivial, trivial week.

Uber. Uber?!!

What on earth does uber mean?!!

If I said to you, "Oh me? I work at a poo farm," would you laugh?

Because I do. Work at a poo farm.

Jason is still ignoring me, and I haven't seen or spoken to Denning since Thursday night. I'm home alone, and I have no idea where everyone is.

I'm beginning to feel very isolated.

Best city in the world.

My city, my Melbourne. I love this city, even if it did take me 1 hour 45 minutes to drive to work this morning. I heard Actress Gwyneth Paltrow's father has died of a heart attack in Italy five times before I turned into the brown gates.

I reset the car's odomoter last night. Tonight, it read 126kms.

I'm having trouble remembering what day it is.