Life. Be in it. Whatever happened to that campaign? I loved it - rise up, fat slobs and energise. Self improve, seize the opportunities late capitalism and middle class sprawl have on offer.
Now, a dubious segue: I'm being in life at the moment, after a summer of languishing and waiting. Living in the city changes everything. First, there is no night - streetlights keep a pseudosun in the sky and sleeping feels wrong. I've been cutting down to four hours a night and it feels great. Tea in the morning, a nap in the afternoon lull and extra hours in the day. I actually feel better than when I adhere to the 8 or 10 hour rule.
My internship has started and I am loving it. I've tried to keep my naive, fresh faced intern patter under control in favour of appearing competent at all times. However, I can't seem to stop myself peppering conversations with the word "cool" when what I mean is "excellent" or some other, more professional word. I've trailed some reporters around and witnessed the construction of a story from nothing. Also, the dissolution of a story from something - one that I vox-popped for disintegrated under stony silence from necessary authorities. It's amazing - you can make something from nothing, and sometimes you can't - cos it's nothing. I've also been lucky enough to witness the creation of the front page. A small room, a group of people, talking, discussing - yup, I reckon Mark Latham's superannuation scheme should be up there, then the Spanish election result and implications for Australia. Mmm, and then the ABC strike. And that's it - that's all it is. I am amazed, and inspired. I think I do want to be a journo - this is of course presuming I can get a job in the highly competitive and arguably shrinking industry.
Otherwise, life is good, I think. Still patching my heart together but busying myself seems to be the best solution. And distance. Distance helps. I hate the whole post-relationship 'lets be friends' bullshit - I mean, having had something important, who wants to settle for less? In my (limited) experience, getting far enough away to let the dust settle in the heart is the only way to "be friends" - otherwise, frustrations build, spats start, and it turns nasty. A distance of, ooh, a month should be enough for this one I think. It's like quitting any addiction - I have to unlearn habits, relinquish the cycle of bad-but-good, good-but-bad. I have to get off the ride. And I must must must learn to break this link I make between sex and love.
Final tidbit: last night, my friend-and-housemate came into my room at 2 cos the light was still on to find me lying on my side, with vacant eyes, crying, not making any sense, like someone possessed, unable to answer questions, uncomfortable, distant, not there. He left me cos I seemed to want to be alone and I don't remember any of it. It must have been my naked subconcious, seizing the opportunity to leap to the surface, pour out the poisons and disatisfactions while no-one was looking. It's been years since I last cried in my normal state - perhaps my subconcious does it for me, saves face in an Asian kind of way, lets things flow. But it was sprung, and now I know. It's a little disconcerting, knowing that I, or part of me, was doing something somewhere sometime without my own knowledge. I mean if you can't trust yourself, who can you trust?
Now, a dubious segue: I'm being in life at the moment, after a summer of languishing and waiting. Living in the city changes everything. First, there is no night - streetlights keep a pseudosun in the sky and sleeping feels wrong. I've been cutting down to four hours a night and it feels great. Tea in the morning, a nap in the afternoon lull and extra hours in the day. I actually feel better than when I adhere to the 8 or 10 hour rule.
My internship has started and I am loving it. I've tried to keep my naive, fresh faced intern patter under control in favour of appearing competent at all times. However, I can't seem to stop myself peppering conversations with the word "cool" when what I mean is "excellent" or some other, more professional word. I've trailed some reporters around and witnessed the construction of a story from nothing. Also, the dissolution of a story from something - one that I vox-popped for disintegrated under stony silence from necessary authorities. It's amazing - you can make something from nothing, and sometimes you can't - cos it's nothing. I've also been lucky enough to witness the creation of the front page. A small room, a group of people, talking, discussing - yup, I reckon Mark Latham's superannuation scheme should be up there, then the Spanish election result and implications for Australia. Mmm, and then the ABC strike. And that's it - that's all it is. I am amazed, and inspired. I think I do want to be a journo - this is of course presuming I can get a job in the highly competitive and arguably shrinking industry.
Otherwise, life is good, I think. Still patching my heart together but busying myself seems to be the best solution. And distance. Distance helps. I hate the whole post-relationship 'lets be friends' bullshit - I mean, having had something important, who wants to settle for less? In my (limited) experience, getting far enough away to let the dust settle in the heart is the only way to "be friends" - otherwise, frustrations build, spats start, and it turns nasty. A distance of, ooh, a month should be enough for this one I think. It's like quitting any addiction - I have to unlearn habits, relinquish the cycle of bad-but-good, good-but-bad. I have to get off the ride. And I must must must learn to break this link I make between sex and love.
Final tidbit: last night, my friend-and-housemate came into my room at 2 cos the light was still on to find me lying on my side, with vacant eyes, crying, not making any sense, like someone possessed, unable to answer questions, uncomfortable, distant, not there. He left me cos I seemed to want to be alone and I don't remember any of it. It must have been my naked subconcious, seizing the opportunity to leap to the surface, pour out the poisons and disatisfactions while no-one was looking. It's been years since I last cried in my normal state - perhaps my subconcious does it for me, saves face in an Asian kind of way, lets things flow. But it was sprung, and now I know. It's a little disconcerting, knowing that I, or part of me, was doing something somewhere sometime without my own knowledge. I mean if you can't trust yourself, who can you trust?
posted by Doug @ 3/20/2004 09:43:00 am
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