Mojo Pin

Looking through photographs of old friends turned new. They’ve travelled along the same paths as I have, turned into indie rockers and found lovers. Still in Brisbane, some have taken up smoking. Some smoke my brand of smoke. Some have quit. Some have found love and so many haven’t changed very much at all.

I just want to be moved.

I’m a realist.

My job takes up so much of my life, I want it to define me. Being a realist takes a lot of the fun out of life. I’m an animal and a farmer. Life defines me. I don’t define my life.

I was feeling very creative tonight. Jeff Buckley made me stop moving and stare at the wall.

I am not ever filming boats again.

While filming a Montebello Catamaran on the Gold Coast on the 23rd June, 2009 I had a fall during a high speed drive over breaking waves while crossing an inlet out to sea.

I was holding on to a bench top and table for dear life, screaming scared and being thrown up and down with no restraint of life jacket. The boat was going extremely fast over breaking waves, falling flat on the other side and each time becoming more and more difficult to hold on. I was standing between a counter and a table, holding on to each side. On one very violent drop over the back of a wave I was thrown up so high that I lost grip on one hand. I spun around and smashed face first into a countertop impacting solely with my front left teeth.

I then remember shaking my head and I was laying on the floor, my arm was outstretched forward.
The waves were still very violent so I grabbed onto the base of a table and held on, wedged between the bottom of the bench, and the bottom of the table. I stayed there for a moment while Tony and Ellen asked over and over if I was okay. They were very worried and I kept saying that I was alright. I didn’t want them to have to let go of what they were holding on to, to tend to me. I knew I could hold on from my new position on the floor, until after the waves had passed. The waves were dying down by this point.

I found and felt the following injuries.

- One incredibly large bruise on the left thigh, [pictured below]
- Left, second front tooth extremely sore with pain when eating and sleeping.
- A small abrasion on the left cheek bone with a large red mark around it.
- A painful bruise on the left elbow.
- Three bruises on the right knee cap
- Three bruises on the left knee cap

I have had nightmares every night since then, I can’t sleep from thinking about how frightened I was, staring at the giant waves out the front and watching the bench top rise up into my face. I am not ever filming boats again.

Usually I wouldn’t quote another writer. But,

Don’t do anything by half.
If you love someone, love them with all your soul.
When you go to work, work your ass off.
When you hate someone, hate them until it hurts.

- Henry Rollins

Four years and I still remember

Four years and I still remember well the salt in your hair, the sticky sea smell like straw, all curls and scrunched. Long like Jolie and black it stuck to me while you slept. I’d twirl bunches of the stuff and stare long into our white winter ceiling. Heater on high I rolled over while you snored, I took breaths of your world I wanted nothing but your dark brown eyes sleepy staring into mine. I wanted nothing but your smell but I found myself, everytime you woke, with a big white ceiling, a dusty smell, and the same old living
hell.

What I’ve learned

Writing blogs, writing creatively, contriving projections on the future, throwing up textual poetry, doodling lists, reviewing happenings from the real world.

This blog post is an ideas flow. I’ll edit it a number of times, but the initial flow of ideas is the purpose, and has/will remain within a constant, narrative-like structure from the initial keystrokes to the finalising publishing button click.

I chose to classify this blog post as a creative writing piece.

An indicator to the contrary, we are missing the three act structure. Then again, upon close inspection one can spot a three act structure in this blog. And although the character and setting are non-conventional they do still exist within virtual space, with my mentality as the protagonist.

This is not the journalistic top-down pyramid, although, interestingly, that is originally what I had intended to use to structure this blog post. As a quick side note, while we’re on the topic, in my life I’m still yet to successfully keep a top-down story. I just plain love the narrative structure SO much that any and every news story I’ve ever tried to write becomes wildly fictional almost immediately and takes on elements of conflict, however small, all the while growing itself at least one character and … and … and back on topic, in a way I suppose this blog could be classified as a review. In some ways, it’s a subjective review of the my subjective while posting a blog.

The thing that I realised – getting back to my original point – is that there is a different level of bullshit content in each form, and different ways to present each different end product. And I don’t care about any of them at all, though end up usually, sometimes, using bits and pieces of any of some of them most of the time.

On my first day of uni I was sitting in my very first lecture hall staring at the very first outwardly feminst woman I’d ever met. She was obsessed with feminist rights, wearing purple with wild red hair and tiny bells on her wide, wide skirt. I fell in love with that woman, and everything she was. She changed my life that day, because she gaves me the word that I love using most in the world. The word was, ‘bleeds.’ Form bleeds into function, feminist rights bleed into minority issues. Meridith. I got up for a 7am lecture every Wednesday for two semesters, smiling, because of that woman.

What it all comes down to in the end, is my love of letters. I love the clacking of my keyboard; I love altering words, replacing them and reorganising them. The concept of a blog appeals to me so much it’s hard for me find enough space in my heart to fit all the love I have for it. It’s everything I want from a creative medium. It’s digital, it’s textual, it’s a changeable space, has an accessible audience with boundaries and rules limited only by my own enthusiasm.

My boss asked me to interpret his dream last night.

He said that our General Manager was fired, and that Pauline Hanson was hired in to take his place. And then, Pauline Hanson fired a bunch of people.

He received this email at last night, which I wrote, while waiting for a video to render.

What Does Your Dream Mean?

by Kate Edwards

A politician in your dream often involves the very issues which you find in politics – the need to promote and defend your own interests. You are considering the need to argue your own corner. This dream in particular bleeds and intermingles with the term “office politics;” the politics of your working life are being compared and contrasted with a public figure head within your subconscious to represent your narrower world-view on a grander scale.

This dream may suggests that there are changes in command structures somewhere in your life. Changes at work, or at home, over recent times which have affected your subconscious on a level that you are trying to address, but can’t pass scratching the surface. You have brought a figure head into your subconscious dreaming to represent the change that you want to make. Change is on your mind, and tipping the balance of power is your key focus.

QUESTIONS:
- Did you face an issue involving office politics the day before the dream?

I added a contact page today. And I’m thinking about adding a page for photos.

Ah, excellent, the video has finished exporting. Back to work!

Let her be.

Walk over mountains

Stride through pouring rain

Smile up

Let the sun rays splash down

Maybe you’ll be back some day.

Just when you think you have no-one.

The sun comes up

And you’re not alone any more.

The city, she loves you.

Why I don’t sit on other girl’s laps and let the boys take pictures.

I think I missed that part of my adolescent years where I had the chance to be frivolous and carefree about taking my place as a ‘woman.’ Could’ve been that 32-y-o I was dating at 16, or perhaps the 21-y-o with the child, that I looked after as his replacement mother, at 18, for a year or so.

Who knows.

Something went awry that left me without a few key life skills, I’ve come to realise, the least of which being that all too feminine drive to come across as a sex object for the attraction of men. Despite what some men and women might have you believe, I’m actually not that interested in the sexual attention of anyone, at all. I understand the advantages of having a nice smile, but the rest is up to the good graces of the sex-charged societal backflip that we seem to be living within, that makes any woman, honest or otherwise, into a walking, breathing potential cock hole, most of the time.

To be honest, there hasn’t ever really been a time when I’ve had much attention from men, until recently. Up until now, I’ve had these pseudo-masculine figureheads that I’ve loved so dearly that have all turned out to be extremely protective boyfriends who refuse to let another man glance at my goods, ever, without severe consequences. All these years I haven’t had to worry about my looks, what I come across as, how other men and women perceive me, because I’ve been spoken for.

But the single world is cut throat, I’m coming to realise. Since I’ve been single now for a whole year and a half, I’ve come to realise some interesting tid-bits about the nature of many women. I live in this single world of ours, but I’m definitely not used to the smell yet.

I never had any sisters, and my best friends have always been guys. I grew up with four brothers, a backyard full of cars and the smell of oil and sweat loitering about my bathroom every moment of every day. Mechanics shops, to me, feel a lot like home. These days I can race a car up the Spit, and win, with the right wheels, but I can’t walk in cork shoes for the life of me. I can rig a safe electrical connection between a back shed out a kitchen window, through a back room, over the clothes line and down past the garage … but I can’t hold another girl’s hand during a scary movie, when I know she’d love nothing more than a little comfort.

Let’s pretend for a moment that I’m at a party, sinking a beer at a table on a back veranda, under the stars … looking down at the clothes line past the railing, that holds in a decent amount of room to swing a few chairs around on the deck. In this instance, I am sitting at the table with the guys, sinking this beer of mine, and shouting stories about the good old days.

I will not, and I do not mention this lightly, I will not, and never will this be revoked, I will not ever sit on another girl’s lap and pose for the boys with my finger in my mouth, with come-get-me eyes and a sly smile to suggest that there’s something I got, that he wants.

Never in my life, is that girl me.

On the contrary, the mental process behind such a display actually confuses the hell out of me. My place, in this instance, is sitting at that table with the boys in their jeans, elbows on the bench top, lips pursed and eye brows raised, smirking slightly at the girls being silly for us, us guys, … wondering, not so strangely, what went wrong in my life, that left me sitting here, on this side. Sitting on the other side, staring at the girls while they touch each other and pretend to kiss, and then giggle about how they almost kissed and then oh my god, who wants us to do it!? I would sit there, staring at them, feeling nothing for these women but contempt. Jealousy that they have a skill that I don’t understand, that I will never possess. A skill that these girls have, to stop my conversation about movies and shoes with the blokes, and take their attention away for a seemingly ludicrous ritual of ‘play’ and flirtation.

If only I was a lesbian, they all say. And I’ll admit, I’ve said a few times. If only I was a lesbian, things would be so much easier.

But

you know what

I’m just, not.

I’m just a woman that was taught to value her hands instead of her cunt.

Which is a shame, really, because the world isn’t really set up for women like me.

Prom Queen

Life is belief, routine, and change.

Every moment in life is struggle, everything brings a different level of the personal challenge we each face, of continuation, of movement, and the challenge of keeping going.

The hardest part is motivation. Keeping the motivation you need to upkeep the continuation.

Self-reeducating norms, redefining your own norms. Deciding that at any given moment the next moment will be either different, or the same.

My norm is to sit, placid in front of science-fiction shows. Anything else in my life I consider to be ‘different.’ My norm used to be music and art, learning and beauty, and cultural mind expansion. All of the rest of things, now, are either extremely challenging, or overwhelmingly powerful, and in most cases of the later, unsettlelingly beautiful.

My existence is so neutral, so passive, in this way, that any piece of life I end up only ever mentally and physically gauging as extreme. Any stimuli what-so-ever has only registering as extreme, due to extreme passivity being my norm.

– A night on the town is nothing. To most.

A night on the town is different to that, to me. It’s new, it’s meaningful, it serves a purpose, it has new levels of comprehension and learning, and requires extra and inautomatic motivation from within my being somewhere. I do not organically set myself in motion.

To me, a night on the town is difficult. To me, a night on the town, can be everything.

It didn’t used to be this way. Once I was the prom queen. Murwillumbah High School, 2003 Queen of the prom. I still don’t know how I won that title.

This is it.

xkcd. This, right here, is it.

Shot Gun

Shot gun blast through the heart, bulk pulp punch through the back. Splat.
Adrenaline gland kicks a brave surge, see you later.
Clarification moment of a fear you’d rather forget.

Feet wet from the puddle of your own piss that snuck out
while you were thinking about
what would happen
if that mother fucker
did
what you thought he was going to do.