What I Need to Say When I Need to Say Something

I’m sitting here, smoking in my room because I have the house to myself, and thinking:

Fuck it.

I’m sick of being So. Fucking. Good.

I’ve had enough of not having sex on the first date, let alone with strangers. Of no longer taking drugs. Of getting anxious around the smell of pot and being shy with guys. Of my need for approval from those in authority.

There is a duality in me, like in all people to some extent, which confuses and frightens me.
I yearn for the self-destructive consumption of alcohol, yet I’m equally repulsed by the lack of self-control it represents.
I am intense and violent in my sexuality but, until very recently, felt horrified and dirty at the thought of presenting anything other than the illusion of pious virginity to my parents. Not to mention the impression I make on men of being intimidating and difficult.
I have a merciless contempt for anything conventional and popular – musically, sartorially, artistically – but I long for the simple sexuality of blonde hair and fake breasts and have a secret playlist of pop R&B songs that I listen to when noone is around to hear it.
I spent a good part of my life trying to starve myself to death, can tell you the caloric content of almost any food you could name, use Equal, drink soy, eat organic… but nothing warms my heart more than deep-fried slivers of potato covered in chicken flavoured sodium chloride with some form of processed meat product. And as a child I would cry myself to sleep about the state of the world and wake up having wet the bed, but these days I eat McDonald’s and never give money to people in the street, as if the $42 a month I send to Lidia Rodriguez in Honduras somehow frees me from any further responsibility or guilt.

I am a walking contradiction and I no longer know how much of this is natural human caprice and how much has come about as a result of attempting to fit my passionate, intense, violent and self-destructive personality into the outlines of the body I’ve chosen to present to the world. But what I do know is that I’m sick of holding it all together. I want to spill out over the edges of my carefully drawn lines and run screaming at the world while I’m still young enough and beautiful enough to do so.

That’s what I want to do.
But after twenty odd years of building up walls, how the fuck am I meant to break them down now?

The Most Beautiful Woman in the World

Post-coital

Right now
today
after sex.
He feels unnecessary.
He lies against me and I face the other way and I feel like the sun.
Outside it’s raining and I imagine I’m in Paris - the beautiful ingénue in an arthouse film and he is one of my many lovers.
He turns my face toward him and says,
“You’re very pretty”.

And I feel alone.

The Lust of my Life

From my private journal, dated 28th August, 2009

Today I saw ______! He was sitting outside Jungle Juice, next door to my work, when I came back from my break, wearing a fisherman's beanie and his 1940's suit.

Beautiful, beautiful man.

I walked past my work and hurried straight over to order a coffee and he remembered me and smiled.
"Hey" I said, staring transfixed into his bluest of blue eyes.
"Hey" he replied, calmly.
"What you up to?"
"Working, working" he said with a camp flick of the wrist. Is he gay? I hadn't really considered it before but it's very possible.
"You?" he added.
"Yeah, working. Next door." I pointed.
We smiled and I ordered my coffee and walked away... but I could've stayed and stared at those eyes for hours. It makes my stomach buzz just thinking about it.
God, I sound like I've been reading Mills & Boon romances. I haven't. I promise. He just has that affect on me. I would marry him tomorrow. I would sleep with his brother, but I would marry him tomorrow.

LATER that same day...
Saw him again. That's two sightings in one day. But there's a negative spin to this story. He was sitting outside the fish'n'chip shop with a female. Rubbing her knee. This leads me to conclude one of two things. Either, she is his partner and therefore the obvious recipient of familiar knee touching, or, he's gay and she is his fag hag (I hate that term. Why did I use it?) She is his female friend and therefore open to all manner of intimate physical contact.

Unfortunately, neither of these possibilities bodes well for my future with Mr ____.

To Get a Woman...

Taken from The Light of God and Girls

The Big Easy Empty

I’ve had an unusual week and I’m at Dutch angles. I allowed myself to let go of my own values and that’s dangerous territory to venture in to, the result of which has been the materialisation of a Big Empty Nothing in the pit of my stomach.
I’ve found it hard to focus. It’s been tough to eat. I’ve talked too much. I missed by ex-boyfriend. I washed down high-strength codeine with wine at 3 o’clock on my lunch break. I didn’t do the cryptic crossword. I cried all the way home on the train. I called myself mean names and thought bad things about myself.

But, during the same week:
I was chased down the stairs at the theatre by a boy twice in once night. An actor. A lead actor. Of a Big Production from a Well Respected Theatre Company.
Another boy-man, a drummer, in a band, that I’ve secretly liked for a long time, caught my eye and smiled at me, more than once, in the laneway, and started to come into my shop (before I got scared and turned away and looked busy. But next time I may act normal).
And a man-boy has wanted to spend time with me and walked me to my car and offered to spend more time with me in the near future.
And yet another boy drew a picture for me and helped me make a decision and sent me a nice text when I was sad and asked to eat food with me at a place where you pay to do so.
And I have an audition for a TV show tomorrow.

So, why do things work this way? Why do good things bunch themselves together like sixteen-year-old girls and then disappear for months on end? And why do some other things, which start out as really, incredibly good, suddenly decide to become really, really not so good and altogether quite unpleasant? And where is that lovely balance between the two?

But I must say that despite the Big Empty that’s nested down in my stomach, a part of me has actually silently enjoyed the frustration of this past week. A part of me that says, “This may feel bad, but savour it. It means you are alive”.
So me and my Big Empty are, for now, learning to cohabitate. And when it eventually decides to pack its swag and leave town, I will not reminisce about it altogether unkindly.

Feed Me with Lights

At the age of 25 I left the city in which I'd grown up, knowing that I would never return. In the years that have passed from then to now, I have never once ached for it so intensely and completely as I do for New York.

It is an all-consuming, palpable yearning not dissimilar from the pain of a broken heart.
It buzzes in my chest and knocks the breath out of me.

What kind of magic does this city command that it has so utterly taken over my soul?

Of Hands and Teeth

It’s cold and wet and I’m overcome with a familiar feeling of loneliness and solitude. The heater is on. The dog is licking himself in that way that drives me insane. My 26 year-old sweater smells like fabric softener.

The aimlessness is torture.

I’ve never been a person who copes well with inactivity. I fill my days with work, chores, outings, events, to avoid, at all costs, being left alone with my own thoughts. But in the depths of my busyness, nothing excites me more than the idea of an uncluttered day. Because we are wired to strive for happiness in something ‘other’, regardless of whether that ‘other’ has proven itself to be pleasurable or not.

So today, like on all my other days off work, I went out1. I wandered around Sun Bookshop looking for The Trick is to Keep Breathing but ended up being seduced by zombies yet again. Then I went across the street to Cornershop and spent a solid 3 hours reading, eating, drinking coffee, and awkwardly responding to the subtle flirtations of the cute waiter who is slightly too young and too shaggy to interest me enough to want to pursue him. I put off returning home as long as I could. I even walked back across the street to the cinema to see if it would save me from the inevitable. It didn’t and here I am. Sitting in the quiet warmth of my living room, legs tucked under me, on a folded quilt on the ground, feeling… feeling… feeling alone and surrounded by the deafening noise of a million other sorry people rushing about or sitting quietly alone, inflicting some form of pain upon themselves, all in the same state of aloneness as me.

Oh my God. Have you read this thing I’ve just written? Who am I? Please someone take me out and shake the black eyeliner and razor-blades off of me.

And after you’ve done that, stay for dinner and keep me company.


1Because in the three years and four months since I moved to Melbourne, I have spent only one day confined to my house. No. Wait. I did leave the house that day. For breakfast. But I spent the entire rest of the day at home on the couch reading a book. Quite a feat! I couldn’t stop thinking about it for weeks afterwards.

On Men and Parallel Parking

So.
Men.
I don’t get them.
And lately I’ve found myself more and more attracted to the kinds of men I’ve always reviled. The tattooed and the dirty and the drug addicted. Is this the after effect of a six-year relationship with a ‘nice guy’ (who, as it turns out, wasn’t so nice anyway)? Or is it a rebellion against my Eastern European, Catholic, clothes-freshly-washed-and-ironed upbringing? Whatever the reason, I find myself being inescapably drawn to the suggestion of a no-strings-attached liaison with a man who will expect nothing of me but simultaneously shower me with attention. “Fantasy!” I hear you say. Very possibly so, but a girl can dream can’t she? And by God I have been.
But dirty men aside, what I really don’t understand is the whole courting ritual. Once again I blame my LTR* for my complete lack of dating savvy but really, if a girl is interested, but not overly so, why must men make everything so complicated? Is it that they believe all women want to marry them? That every interested girl automatically thinks of nesting down? Because I can truthfully say that in my case this isn’t so. So why the hot and the cold? The on and the off? The furtive glances across a crowded room and the arrogant attitude? I mean for God’s sake (should I believe in him, which I’m not sure anymore that I do), just tell us what you want and be done with it. But I guess that’s asking too much. After all, I have a 6-month-old secret crush that I express by being openly rude and hostile, so what can I really expect in return? And, deep down, at the very core of my subconscious mind, I don’t actually believe that any man is really capable of loving one woman for the term of his natural life, nor that he really wants anything more than sex, so what am I getting so upset about anyway? If only I could, a) become emotionally self-sufficient and actually stick to my resolve for more than a day; and b) train myself not to view every man through the relationship filter left for me by my parents.
If only.
But if I am to be completely honest - and I always am with you, my reader - what I really want, really truly want, is someone to be nice to me and make me cups of tea and kiss me on the forehead and hug me when I have a bad day and come to me with their sorrows and tell me jokes that aren’t funny and buy me clothes I’ll never wear and speak to me in languages I don’t understand and wave their smelly socks in my face and be impressed by my parallel parking and play with my dog even when I’m not around to see it and watch disgusting zombie films with me and listen to me talk about books they’ll never read and show me work of theirs I don’t care about but will pretend to anyway and, and, and… make me feel like their day is that much better for having had me exist in it.
Is that so much to ask for?
Is it?
Perhaps.


*LTR - Long Term Relationship

I can't offend you more than I offend myself..

I’m feeling a lot of doubt, in myself as a person, as an actor, as a woman/girl/female (it doesn’t feel right referring to myself as a woman but that’s an issue I’ll have to leave for another day).
I wonder, all the time, so much so that it’s almost not worth mentioning, whether I’m deluding myself with this whole acting malarkey. But that inevitably leads to thoughts of whether I’m deluding myself with this whole life business.
Sometime in my past, somehow, I latched onto the idea of acting to give myself a purpose. And now, at 28 years old, I’m returning to the moment when that decision was made and once again asking, “what now?”
And so indeed, what now? If not an actor then what? A director? Well, that’s just as delusional as the so-called career I’ve already got. An Olympic equestrienne? Hah! A teacher? Where’s the bottle of cheap wine and sleeping pills please. A writer? Well we’re back to the impossibleness of the realm of the actor and director. So….
A prostitute? Financially lucrative but I’ve never been much good with men. And I have tiny breasts. A dog trainer? Wonderful fun but pays just enough to keep a small poodle in kibble for a couple of days with owner living in cardboard box. Hmm…. I’m drawing a blank. What else interests me? Retail sales manager? I can see my future now. Forty-five and dressed like a girl, telling some insecure brat that she looks ‘hot’.
What else? What else? Fucking God please tell me what else?!
I. Can. Not. Think. Of. Any. Other. Profession. That. I. Would. Be. Good. At.
What do I do? Starve myself to death to avoid my inevitable descent into middle-aged mediocrity? But I’ve already tried that and I’m bored with the self-indulgent narcissism it demands.
What would I be great at? I could watch DVDs for a living. Read books. Look up celebrities on the internet. Browse for weight-loss tips. Tan once a year. Do cryptic crosswords. Eat breakfast at a cafe everyday. Forget to call my parents. Stay up late. Download TV shows. Park illegally. Take mediocre photos and post them on my blog. Buy clothes. Buy cosmetics. Try to find the cure for acne. Eat my own weight in popcorn. Pick up other peoples rubbish while tsking audibly. Write down ideas for outfits I will never wear. Read Amazon book reviews for book I will never buy. Look up IMDb profiles for actors I have never heard of. Doubt myself. Doubt myself. Doubt myself.
I’m so exhausted with the thought of the meaning of the pursuit of fulfilment in life that I cannot even bring myself to think of a way to end this bitter diatri…

You know what is wonderful?

... not knowing how much I weigh and not caring because noone else does. You know what is exhilarating? Riding my bike through the East Village in cut-off 501's with my hair blowing in my face and no helmet. You know what is delightful? Getting a text message that says "You are the coolest girl ever to breathe the mix of gases that enables a human to live on this planet." You know what is astonishing? Dancing at a dive bar to cheesy 80s music and poking a munchkin in the back who turns out to be Mary Kate Olsen. You know what is magic? Sitting in Doma Cafe in the absurdly beautiful West Village eating breakfast at 9 o'clock at night and listening to Bjork's All is Full of Love. You know what is breathtaking? Walking through Central Park on a sticky July night and watching fire flies light up the hillside. You know what is unexpected? Meeting amazing, inspiring people who completely change the way I look at life. You know what is gut-wrenching? Knowing that in less than a week it'll all be a memory.

Street Style - East Village

Pee is Not Fertilizer

Down the road from Beacon's Closet.

Not after money, just having a good time

On Bedford ave in Williamsburg, very obviously high and very disturbingly entertaining.

How to Tell a Girl You're Interested

Today, hungover and tired I took my first walk through Central Park and stopped at the Ballplayer's House Cafe for a combined breakfast/lunch at 3pm. I hassled my Californian Jack Black-lookalike-only-younger-and-thinner waiter about what I should order in my listless state and then set about ingesting my Vegie Burger goodness along with the accompanying packet of crisps while reading Joseph Campbell and eavesdropping on uninspiring nearby conversations. After wiling away a good part of the day in this lazy, indulgent fashion, I packed up my stuff and put a $20 bill in the bill folder and waited for my change.
I waited.
I waited.
I waited.
I worried that perhaps they assumed I wanted to leave a big tip.
After making subtle googly eyes at random staff members, my waiter finally returned with the folder before quickly disappearing.

Inside the folder, along with my change, was this:



I should be honest with you and admit that I don't intend on calling him. But man, did he sure make my day.

New York - 6 Weeks In

So my six weeks at The Esper Studio is almost over and what an experience it’s been. Study aside, my New York experience has been the most relentlessly stimulating and exciting period of my life. I’ve run myself broke, broken up with my boyfriend of 6 years, been solicited for sex, asked for directions several times a day, applied for more jobs in 2 weeks than I have in my entire life, been yelled at, praised, adored and ignored. I’ve changed my hair colour and finally reached a healthy weight (I’ve been underweight for years). I’ve partied with famous actors and seen others in the streets. I’ve watched a Bouffon clown noir performance and a subway rendition of Do Ron Ron.

I’ve questioned my religious beliefs and I’ve rediscovered my love for acting. And, most excitingly, I’ve enjoyed hanging out with myself, and reassessing what that means.

And I still have a month left…

Small Sentences from My Pocket Notebook

On Monday night I was at a Salsa party watching the people, full of joy, dancing together as men and women should dance and a man nearby was wearing my father's cologne and I felt safe and content.

The other day an old man rode by me on a squeaky bicycle and for a moment I thought the squeaking was coming from him.

Yesterday on the subway a lady wearing a cap sneezed and her hat flew forward and landed on the open page of the magazine she was reading. I tried, unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh but thankfully she was so busy trying to make it look intentional that she didn't notice.

More Musings of a New York Experience

All the cars are Armoured. And when I say all, I mean there seems to be a national concern that someone is not only going to gun down their bank and mail trucks, but also their pet supply trucks, their bagel trucks, and worst of all, their cheap polyester Asian ball gown trucks.

American men not only make nice comments about you as you walk down the street, such as "Hey baby", "Look at them beautiful eyes" and "Yo honey wassup?", but can also be relied upon to open doors for you and allow you ahead of them in the Starbucks queue. And I don't mean men you are acquainted with, but complete strangers. This trait could well be the single most endearing quality of the American male.

Good coffee does not exist. You can either have regular coffee (filtered) or the more fancy eXpresso (note, not espresso but eXpresso) which tastes pretty much like filtered coffee but weaker, due to the enormous bowls they serve them in, and with overheated milk.

Despite the fact that I no longer automatically walk to the left side of every walkway, I have found it impossible to let go of my deeply ingrained survival instinct to Look Right, then Left, then Right Again. To avoid certain death I've adopted a method I call Continual Head Swivelling whereby I swing my head from side to side continuously while crossing the street because I just cannot train my brain to remember that they come from the left side first and then the right side.

One of the great delights of catching the subway is the walk you make up the exit stairs before emerging onto the street. It's an ascent full of anticipation and speculation, particularly if you're in a heretofore unexplored area. Will it be bustling or deserted? Will there be bodegas or boutiques? Will it smell like sewerage or halal meat? I can't help but get excited every time I make this climb.

Brooklyn Flea Market Dogs

Now I love dogs as much as the next person. In fact, I'd go so far as to say I love dogs more than the next person, being something of a dog lover. But spending any substantial amount of time in New York could do some serious damage to my canine affections. And to be fair it's not really the dogs who are to blame, but my God people, get your tiny, rat-faced, harness wearing mutts out of my way. I can't walk 10 metres without stepping in your little pal's puddles of poodle juice and just because you can tug your practically weightless dog around behind you like a kite doesn't mean it should be allowed to wander all over the footpath impersonating a living land mine. Not to mention the fact that I have to step over it in the grocery aisle and make room for its carry-bag on the subway. But please, oh please, if you must have a carry-on sized pet then at least do me the courtesy of having a cute one, and being a little inventive with its mode of transport. Like these guys...






Look at the way they're just hanging out, cool as cucumbers. Couldn't you just eat them?

I take it all back. Have your little dogs, and while you're at it, spread some of their fluffy cuteness my way.

My Thousand Dollar Night

After a night of traipsing through the LES trying to find a bar that wasn't seedy or with a queue around the block, my fellow Australian Gene and I were treated to a VIP night of pure indulgence.

It turns out that my new housemate not only has a gorgeous apartment and a lovely disposition, but also some pretty important compadres. An influential friend of hers took us out to Home, a club with a guest list which includes such luminaries as Rachel Hunter, Tara Reid, Jeremy Piven, Rosario Dawson, Cynthia Nixon and P Diddy/Puff Daddy/Poop Diddly amongst others. Whilst no celebrities made an appearance during our visit, you could be forgiven for thinking that we were the celebrities. Our high-flying man, having used his pull to help open the club, ensured that we were ushered through the velvet rope ahead of 200 waiting clubbers before being escorted to a VIP table worth $1000 a night. We were then brought $250 bottles of champagne by eager-to-please hostesses. We also got private tours through to the connected club, Guesthouse, as well as VIP entry to most of the other bars on the street.
It was quite a night.

My only quibble would be with the unavoidable spectacle of drunk Americans dancing. Sweet God in heaven, where is the class? It would seem that the general modus operandi for dancefloor courtship involves a girl being dry-humped from behind, whilst being pressed against the front of another gyrating girl with a man similarly attached to her backside. And bonus points to the man who lifts a girl up so that her legs are wrapped around his head and her crotch is mashed against his face. I mean really, this sort of behaviour would guarantee instant removal from (almost) any club in Australia. Does this make us prudish?
Or do we perhaps have more refinement than we give ourselves credit for?