HAI AGAIN

I´M IN TEH STUDY

POSTIN ON UR BLAG

AGAIN

 

abortive/aborted? post

this is a rerun of a lost post from last week. a second iteration where the first iteration was eaten by the internet. like when you handle the young of your pet mice (bad idea).

in my assignment for TM, i said it. the common thread between bachelard, de certeau and even the situationists, is a desire for the reinsertion of language into our understanding of and experience with space. our movements are dumb movements. even if we do read de certeau, how do we read those collective urban texts? our analphabetic understanding of space renders us completely dumb. that is, both stupid and without speech. i cited the example of two people repeatedly attempting to walk around each other on the same side. all that is needed is a simple left or right, i said. or not even something so literate. a gesture. a finger pointing to the side, a throwing of the head. but when  a stocky man ran toward me last week, and at the last second yelled LEFT! at me, my response, in place of moving, and engaging with language in space, was to yell GO FUCK YOURSELF! in this city, there is no originary way toward language for me. all experience of language comes filtered through bile. die stimme (voice) most definitely comes after die stimmung (mood). the mood being belligerence. i have become a belligerent person. this saying is the saying of my being. that is the form of things here. in sydney, i see no other way of coming to language.

 

my iBook

my ibook has recently acquired the most unpleasant of habits. it seems that about every thirty seconds, it makes a kind of quick exploding sound. like a loose base drum being hit. every thirty seconds. gsshhh. gsshhh. gsshhh.

i thought it was a problem with my new speakers, so i unplugged them. then i thought it was a problem that occurred due to itunes or something. but the periodic exploding continues even while the computer sits idle. what. the. fuck. it really takes away from mr bungle. i feel like i’ve already taken too long to start listening to mr bungle, so this is the last thing i need.

on an unrelated note, i have declared the character for hào to be the cutest character in units 1 and 2 of griffith university’s ‘beginners’ modern standard chinese’ course. unfortunately i couldn’t (be bothered) finding a graphic for it.

 

another thing…

i can’t stand people who say skinny latte, cappuccino, etc. it’s SKIM MILK, not skinny milk. there’s nothing fucking skinny about it. if you want to use a descriptor, call it watery milk. it’s not as if it even describes the people who drink it, otherwise it would be called fat milk, or maybe people-with-body-issues milk.
next person who asks me for a skinny latte is getting it served in a test tube. of course that’s a bluff, but whatever.

 

watching a movie.

i just wanted them to shut up i just wanted them to shut up i just wanted them to shut up. stop your pointless speculating, and go get a fucking encyclopaedia. look it up. shut up.

 

dalí and lorca

he quoted something about a crocodile, and said: that’s lorca. he might have said something about lorca and dalí being lovers. and i noted that, according to my professor, dalí and lorca never really managed to consummate their love. indeed they tried once, but it failed comically, in that way that all failed sex is comic. he disagreed. dalí and lorca were lovers. well, my professor did his phd on emilio prados, a good friend of dalí and lorca, and part of the generation of 27. at that point, he pulled up his sleeve. i don’t remember the order of things, but it was something about him learning about lorca through prostitution. he had a three-stroked scar on his arm. white, puckered skin, kind of in a z shape, like the zorro thing. i stared at the scar. a hot knife making three, tasty movements. dalí and lorca were lovers. they consummated their love a million times over. they fucked like machines, oiled but noisy. i stared at the scar.

+++++

i have to do some sort of presentation next week for my creative non-fiction class. given:

a) my general lack of interest in the class, and

b) the fact that two thirds of my book collection are living out past seven hills,

i can’t think of anyone to talk about. can someone suggest a writer who does something interesting under the non-fiction rubric? something that won’t bore me while i speak about it for five minutes…

 

room wanted

walked up to king street yesterday before class to see if there were any signs up asking for flatmates. but the fuckwits from the council had just be down the street pulling them all down. thanks boys.

just in case anyone other than the four people who i think read this blog comes across it, if anyone knows of a room going in a nice house around newtown, please get in contact with me.

+++

also, so as to fit two whinges in the one day’s post. wisdom teeth. what the fuck. let’s evolve already.

 

over spilt ball bearings

when i got to the peak of being upset and pissed off, the this-is-it moment, the smashing things moment, the moment in which you do not want someone to put-things-in-perspective, the don’t-mention-lebanon moment, i decided to change my piercing. put the ring back in. then i dropped the ball bit and couldn’t find it. i searched and then stopped and threw a t-shirt at the ground. i searched some more and then stopped again. i searched and stopped. i searched and stopped. i gave up and i sat down to cry. i put the stud back in and stood up to screw on its differently functioning ball.

and the ring ball was on the floor. i put the ring in.

 

two shit days

lost the job. and to be honest, i don’t really see why people say this is such a great city.

tomorrow, i’m gonna drink.

 

worst day eva.

last night, when i went to bed, i was thinking something like this:

tomorrow, after uni, i’ll call work, hopefully be able to sort out some kind of regular timetable, then i’ll call haz’s friend who has a room going in enmore, and at best, i could be out of engadine in about a week.

i ‘woke’ at about five thirty, having ’slept’ horribly. actually, five thirty was when i gave up on sleeping. in two jumpers and trackpants, i decided to get up instead of shivering all morning long. i read a bit of the book that i was meant to have read for one of my classes. i headed into uni, miscalculating the time and arriving with ten minutes extra to wait. got there and went into the space and saw nick and a. watched through horrible interactions with bureaucrats and stroppy wannabe academics. as we packed up some of the installation cranky and nick dropped a light support on my head, splitting my right eyebrow. two minutes later, i walked face-first into the now put-away light stand, opening a smaller cut below my left eye. the cuts aren’t that serious, i thought. and they make me look tough. things were still ok.

class made me want to hurt myself. it went on and it went on.

i’ll just call work and sort my life out. they told me to come in tomorrow to collect the money they owed me. and? well, you know, i asked for a night or two off (a week in advance). they can’t deal with that. come in tomorrow. guess i won’t bother calling that house then if i can’t pay the rent. had a beer and then headed home. all the way to engadine.

engadine.

i got home and there was a letter from centrelink. they rejected my claim for a health care card. because i’m still out of the country. is that some sort of smart-arsed gibe about how far away engadine is?

this is today. go fuck yourselves.