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Thursday, September 8th, 2016
3:30 pm - Dances

Our relationship is made up more of things that do not exist in it than that of things that do.
This is the second time you have spun me, like a dance partner destined to grab the hand of someone else before an inevitible return to you as we resume, smiles and just enough touch and witty banter for the atmosphere to remain jovial.

I don't dictate axis of orbit, though perhaps I have sabotaged more than I know.  I can't defend two opposing forces with an modicum of success.  You seem to know all the moves and you have all the power.

If the music stops, I am fucked.

I have a feeling that you'll be fine.


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Tuesday, January 26th, 2016
1:13 pm - Holidays
A holiday ended last year, you know, a real holiday with planes and different places.  I say different because the irony of returning home is that it is all different.  Everyone is different.  As soon as was becoming more comfortable with these changes I find myself back here.  The sweat, the stress, the stupidity.   It's coming home in reverse. I imagine it sometimes with an appropriately reversed piano accompiantment, the long swells falling off abruptly as the moment of their original attack is reached.

And you are here, of course.

It's not to say I didn't think about you.  I did.  Too much.   The same reverse swell as i imagined you walking the streets, drinking cofffee and then they end, abrubtly as I realise that I am in a moment that I should really be present in.

Regret is temporarily displaced but it returns with the slow-creeping attack, the refrain the follows is the same:
I wish I had known you then.

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Friday, November 27th, 2015
2:02 pm - Loaded questions.
"Do you think I lead men on?"  You asked.

I said no.  It seems someone else has a liking for your charm.

"Do you know that by our marital statuses or by the things that I say?"

Not sure if you're referring to the lead balloons or the butterlies.

"You know me well and I know you well and we know where 'we' are."

Perhaps -- not.

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Thursday, November 26th, 2015
2:16 pm - Rations
There is just enough touch, enough to move each day to the next.  Perhaps it's conditioning.  Perhaps we laugh at others doing it because admitting irony would be too much.  I watch you with other men and wonder if it's different.  I know that it's different in how you make me feel but is it different for you?  There seems to be just enough proof.

But what would I know.

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Friday, November 13th, 2015
3:54 pm - Ironic
So you're busy.  You've a life that seems for better or worse, more.  And as the Friday dread creeps in it's weighted down further with a failed attempt to know you outside of this place.   For all the desperation you, in your dismissive style, may or may have not noticed the request reamains cloying, at least in my pallette.  I make myself sick.

I know.

Greener green.

But all mine is dead.

I smile a little because it was either spend a fraction of time with you or spend a little a little longer with someone else confiding about you.  Both went bust.

I should have known that you wouldn't be seen with me in that black dress.

There would be irony in there somewhere if it weren't covered in bile.

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Tuesday, October 27th, 2015
2:50 pm - Delays
The trouble is that I can't keep avoiding you.

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Thursday, October 1st, 2015
3:57 pm - Not the same
H&M opened nearby and for some reason I thought there might be something nice.  I left after five minutes because kept thinking: Your husband would look better than me in any of this.

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Tuesday, September 22nd, 2015
11:14 am - One and the same
It was funny, what you said, that IKEA smells like it's not Jakarta. I used to go, mostly on a Friday, to the Richmond store - about ten minute's walk from Victoria Park train station. Vietnamese shops and if you went further, heroin central. You could catch the tram or walk, mostly I'd walk if it wasn't raining. I'd rarely buy anything. Just walk, suit jacket, satchel with a quarter ounce of dope, enough for the fortnight, reeking more than I would have liked it to. But the IKEA smell covered that. I think the appeal was, is, that it's a better life than you have.  Homogenous quaint is certainly better than cat fur and apathy. I remember a friend telling me that I absolutely had to buy the best bed linen I could afford because I owed it to both myself and any prospective partner.   She was like that.   The thing about IKEA is that it looks, smells and feels the same as anywhere else in world.  I've been one in Australia, Holland, Singapore and now Indonesia.  12 years later, nothing has changed.  Stasis in fibreboard and assembly diagrams.   Everything is recognisable.  And as I walked the predetermined path that winds its way around the houswares I recognise you.   Or perhaps it is better to put it this way:  I recognise the way I am in love with you. 

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Friday, August 21st, 2015
3:53 pm - Photographs
While we're on the topic, it has always struck me how different you look in photographs.  I am not talking about an amount of time that highlights hairstyles or a change in weight but mere seconds.  There you are - and then there you are not.  Polished is not the right word, nor are you for most intents and purposes more beautiful.  You steal oxygen with far less effort - your casual hips slung low as you pretend not to know I am watching.  The way rebel strands of your hair curl themselves away from your forehead as the day progresses in both duration and challenge. 

When photographed your image rings false, like many of the things you say and do.  These untruths don't make me think less of you but rather they make you harder to stomach.

Today I wanted to touch you so badly that true to cliche, it hurt.  I feel my skin recoiling against the desire. I have missed you and there will be not enough beer to make me feel better about my absense not making a difference.

Perhaps I should just take a picture.

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Wednesday, August 5th, 2015
8:52 am - Half truths
Everything is in half.  A division of sorts.  Make not the mistake that it infers balance - the halves have their own specific weights - irregularities are a given. With one hand I cover my eyes and extend a finger on my left hand.  Hazards in guesses and besides, it's rude to point.  All I have are questions and I must answer them alone. I'm always fifty percent right, always fifty percent wrong.  There's no comfort in keeping score - I'm bad at math and you are significantly quicker on your linguistic feet.  Are you one step ahead of me?  Do you feel the same as I do?  Are you simply humoring me?  Do you want something more from me?  Are you like this with everyone else?  Should I touch you?  Would you hate me?  Would it change everything?

You are not as you seem but I am in love with whatever half you are choosing to show.

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Thursday, July 30th, 2015
3:37 pm
It is ironic really - that I recently told you the whole story of how this came to be.  Drop an adjective here a verb or two there.There are times when I wonder how feasible it is to keep living in cloze. 

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Thursday, June 18th, 2015
2:59 pm - Mercurochrome
"Fuck you," you say. "Fuck you too," I say, slowing the space between each word. And you say, "You wish!" I don't bother to turn around, choosing not to dignify a response - walking to the car knowing that you know - that eventually our words go too far and it feels less like flicking rubber bands but more like a graze, a skinned knee. As a child, gory fascination overtakes the physical act of being winded - I'd stare down at the mess of blood, gravel and vivid green grass stains. Now I simply keep walking. Winded yes - but you know, you know. By the morning, it will be okay.  A mild hangover and no end in sight.  A cheap routine.  My mum used to paint smiley faces with the Mercurochrome and there was a starting point for healing, waiting for the red to fade away. In a week or more of unencombered time my skin would resume its original state. No such luck now. I feel that my skin has changed with the fall.  Branded, oxidised, falling apart.  Sensitive to your touch, numb to pretty much eveything ese.   Green?  Yes.  Covet with a capital T. Red?  Sure.  Iridescent the sinner, mercurial I remain. And you?  Less so as you manage to effortlessly teeter between casual antagonist and MILF.  Second conditionals.  Clumsy, awkward intentions.  You see, I have terrible balance.  And this is playground all over again.  If only I could win you over with a packet of gobstoppers and lip service.  Those second conditionals again.

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Sunday, August 10th, 2008
6:47 pm - With profuse apologies to the insect world
Sunday is dishes day. If ever someone asks me, "so what was the sum of all of your sundays?" I will reply with the word dishes. Any additional word association games will als probably yield "stomping on ants." My mother would be dismayed to know.

At least then, I am achieving something.

The dishes are clean, the ants smooshed.

I promise to update. (is this a promise to yourself Adam?)

There's got to be more to life than smooshing ants, hating everyone around you
and washing the fucking dishes.

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Monday, September 25th, 2006
2:17 am - friendly?
Boo.

current mood: tired

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Saturday, May 22nd, 2004
10:42 pm - Matter of time
I sit here almost paralysed.

Every action must have a thought-out reaction. Planned, not imposing any improper contradiction of the stubborn directive of my brain. If a mistake is made then square one is
the resulting starting point.

I do not want this, no, but what I do want seems to be made that little bit harder
to reach by this. I also don't understand the 'why.'

This should be a happy time. I am in love. How long has it been since I've felt this way? Since I've craved a voice, a touch like this. How beautiful an emotion when it is singular: Not anyone, no. This particular. A one in a million, in a world of multiples upon this number. That click when no one else can provide what this person gives you. There is just one person who makes me want to change things, to at least try.

I am wanting to censor, as if my words will do unto me a repercussion of three-fold suffering: to those that I love. Isn't this the essence of what this is? And by the withdraw that I fear is inevitable, it is the reverse. What's hardest is the awareness of one's actions throughout this, and the helplnessness you feel as your mind becomes your worst enemy. It's like fighting one's self, and there's no clear winner. It's like trying to convince yourself that you don't hate yourself.

It almost seems rebelious to not want to submit yourself to it. It always seems better theory than practice. You conspire against yourself, trying to at least entertain notions that you're not remaining subservient to funnily enough, yourself. The insatiable (yet predictable) master and dutiful servant all in one package, and it all resides within your head.

This should be a happy time.

current mood: Can't find the words.

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Thursday, May 20th, 2004
8:24 pm - not living (quite yet)
How one's voice can assume a punch of such force, and much rejoicing can be done at it's bend-at-the-stomach qualities. For such words are sweet injury, and their simple equation has been not forthcoming in people I have previously sought them from. Surely I was not expecting them for a while, whatever proclaimation I perhaps (prematurely in her eyes) had spoken in the past week. You need not subscribe to Cleo or cosmo to peruse the common-knowledge article entitled "when to say it" or inversely ,"when not to."

She I said "I love you."

And it is with that thought that I awoke. An echoing of encoded bits, copper wires and remote gateways carrying such sentiment. The infrastructure of love, how it awes your fibre. Due to several brain malfunctions the complete transformative powers of her words did not carry the full range of mood enchancing characteristics, but tonight, as our almost nightly contact ensues, the warmth is spreading through the slush of my brain and down towards to my toes.

Tomorrow I begin something that may help me to love myself, and I am aware that the two are not unrealated. I don't know if I'd bother with this perscribed love if the first one was not there.
So happy, the three of us will hopefully stroll, into whatever bumpy sunset-filled film ending will ultimately be presented. Her, me, and Mister paroxatine.

We shall also see if this third party brings with it an easing in the almost paralysing fear that after a year of neglect and abuse, my mind can recover whatever qualities it requires to succeed in my new career of choice. At the end of the day, it is this fear that is on my mind at the deepest level. For it is, in the end, the only way to bring a sense of physical closeness. If I fail, then I have failed. And perhaps it is a failing to reduce things to black and white.

For true love waits yes? On lolly-pops and crisps apparently.

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Wednesday, May 5th, 2004
2:16 am - Back to normal(?)
Late getting out of work these past few nights. I've been in loans, where it seems so relentless.
Ninety percent miserable crack addicts alternating loans between heroin and baby formula (the former is shown by their eyes, the latter is layed down as a reason why I should give them more money) and five percent disgruntled fucks who feel the need to tell me their 1970's heaters and yellowing food processors have been used twice. Between the two I'm losing patience.

It's been so cold here, but at least it braces you... to feel real for the five minutes or so you're subjected to the weather between home - station - station - work, and the equation is reversed for the pm. The inbetween is thermostatically controlled. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm that way too. The last couple of days haven't been good. My brain has been on auto pilot, successfully navigating any possible down shift in mood. Adjusting accordingly to any temperature shift of the heart.

My week of reality is seeming more and more like a very pleasant dream, but nothing more.
Now, back in the ether, amongst the on screen ghosts, the wonderful world of chemical sedation seems like a good plan. And I hate myself for that thought, but I find myself craving it at the same time. I hate the fact that I was so depressed I was too late to get a bottle of wine from the usual shop, yet as I cut my way through the light rain to the row of darkened shops behind the block that contains my street, I ran across the road with apparent joy that the surly man at the bottle shop of varying opening times was actually there. I slowed when I realised there was a woman standing near the phone booth on the corner watching me.

The end result of my joyous bounding movements across gellibrand crescent is a heavy tiredness, and oddly, one in which I hope will eventually lead to dreams, the ones I don't have often, the ones that stay with you, neither bad, but not ultimately good either.
It's been a while since I've invested any such thoughts in the hope of eventful sleep.

Bah. Time to put the new unkle CD on and get some fucking rest.

current mood: tired

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Saturday, May 1st, 2004
12:53 am - Blessed are the temporary?
Rather than run to embrace what is happening for what it is, I marvelled at my initial reaction - run. Run, hide, flip-flop, whatever the hell, just get out of this somehow - Don't open your arms to this. I can't believe that thought crossed my mind. It's something my mother would do, and she did indeed confirm it. Don't be like me she said. Don't be like me. That is my biggest fear - that somewhere deep down I've been a knowing subscriber to this mix of yearning and apathy.

The day after my last entry is where everything felt like it started to go, well, right.

It felt like six months condensed into those six days. I kissed her first, and regardless of how
this ends, if it indeed ever does (did I speak of such optimism?) I don't regret it.
The more I read over the last entry I was kind of stupid not to realise what was going down.
It almost seemed dreamlike - every recollection needing to be interlaced with some sixties squiggly-line editing and tinkly wind-chimes, and as each evening transitioned itself into another I couldn't help but notice how, like the other night, everything felt right - no hesitation or awkwardness to anything we did - we had been here before.

Such a thing scares me as much as it begs me to embrace it.

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Monday, April 19th, 2004
12:07 am - 50 cent's worth
I don't have IRC anymore. For me it always seemed the online
equivelent of standing in the corner of a club, Conversations
dancing around your person. There are the men with the roving eyes,
the ones that consult their glasses for a mouthful of courage before
they ask your a/s/l. Do you have a photo? Got a webcam?
There are the nodders, skillfully aware of what is around them,
yet they move with music, so they notice you before they themselves are noticed -
they move with the conversation, neither furthering it, nor dragging it
backwards.

It so often clique ridden, it's so often for lack of better words, dumb, it's just as bitchy and flirty and messy as a club. Last night I found myself at a real club. You know, the bump and grind sweaty R&B stuff, and you know, it was kind of alright.

Hanny is on Holiday from Indonesia. It feels so ridiculously made up of chance, in it's most casual way; as are most meetings I suppose, but following the threads of friendship back to initial knots seems easier than it ever has. So uncomplicated. She caught me as I was leaving the chat room, I said I'd add her to msn, I did, and then a few months later we're eating japanese food on Swanston street at 11pm. I like thinking about things like that sometimes, as I'm sure most people think from time to time about the intersecting of our lives with others, and others with ours.

We met on Friday in the afternoon and went down to St Kilda, showing her the basics of the city - building, building, river, river, bay. I was worried at first, how to play host. Not that she's staying with me, but I wanted to show her what it is in this city that I love.

For a while now I have let a lot of things slip. Everything really. But it is this city that holds me. And for every scraped knee I bend to collect, it is this town's gravel that finds itself in the wound, and for that I am thankful. For she comforts me does Melbourne. Perhaps I just wanted to show someone else that. Not the knee however. Because that's just uneccessary. Just the city.

That Hanny loves the Yarra at night more than she does shopping certainly makes me smile. And that she didn't mind (all that much) me showing her the gothy kids at DV8 impressed me no end. I had thought that maybe she wouldn't understand some things I say, but there's little that a couple of pardons don't solve, and our conversation seem largely unhindered. I felt so untethered last night. It's hard to explain. Like there was nothing to prove, no one else to be, and in a way, no connection any deeper than the now to the person I was with.
Perhaps it's that living in a moment commands honesty more often than not. No butterflies, no extremes or reason not to be extreme, no pretense or reason to say something for the sake of filling the air. Hands met, and were reached for, pulled away, reached for again. Like being in school minus the embarrassment and awkwardness. I guess it's just the simple joy of being near someone that exudes such quiet honesty. Forthright is the word I think I'm looking for to describe her.

I had a good time. I didn't get drunk. I didn't need to or want to really, which right now, is probably one of the more unusual things for me to say. In the midst of my job going down the drain, my mother severing ties for another round of 'lets be totally obvious about planning suicide' and my lack of clear decisiveness about a haircut, then I was surprised. I am surprised.

And lucky really, to have found such a wonderful new friend.

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Tuesday, April 6th, 2004
11:25 pm - Sevas Tra
Evening Comes. The fantastic words are by a girl named Christine. The shit singing and psuedo-drum&bass-ness are by me.

Little to speak of here. The evenings are passing with a feeling akin to watching paint grow. Or grass dry. Or maybe both. Mum is slipping back into her favourite form of self-harm in order to cope with things, and my little pool of savings is stuck in limbo. It amazes me the bills one acrews when you don't live a life that reflects excess. I'm so bored.

But in other news...

One of my old net friends has had one of her paintings selected for a British portrait exhibition. I remember her telling me about it a while ago, and about the person she painted. I'd not seen it until tonight. I'm trying to think of ways to describe how beautiful it is, but a failure of vocabulary is quite evident in any way I try to put it -

The girl can fucking paint.

I feel so proud for her, and happy that after much culture-swapping she's finally found a place from which to send these images into the world. For more art is never enough.

And that is all I can say. Except for perhaps another congratulations.

current mood: good

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