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2004-04-22 - 1:14 a.m.

I hate my writing, at the moment. Hate it. Everything I write is crap... bland, bland, banal, who cares, who would read this, I think. I hate summarising other people's ideas. Seriously, I'd rather just copy big slabs of text from the original and say, "read this". Why would you want to read my crummy little exegesis of Bateson when you could read Bateson himself?


The night is a mad mother

There is no escape from her affection

Or her rage

I will not let the silence engulf all of these moments

Some will be saved by the noise

I make by clucking my tongue


I used to write poetry all the time. Now, never. I write nothing of real worth, nothing. I have a friend who is in Greece at the moment. I want to be in Greece. I want to take up smoking again, and smoke "More" cigarettes, you know the ones? The paper is brown and the cigarettes are long. I want to be a lazy mad alcoholic and say things that upset strangers in the street. I want to find things to do with broken glass. I want to be in a Spanish film. I hate Australia. I hate caring so much about the election. Elections ought to be a dull but necessary part of the backdrop to real life. I am sick, sick, utterly utterly sick of the hum of my computer. I realised the other day, that noise is there in my brain for more than half of almost every day. I want to get away from that noise, and maybe sit in a cheap, cockroach-infested hotel and write mournful songs somewhere... somewhere far away and yet, close to everywhere else. Australia is truly the arse end of the world. Bloody bloody.


For some reason, I have taken to swearing to myself lately. I really like the word "cockmongering". I'm sure it doesn't really mean anything. But in much the same joyful way that Ash Bo Bash employs "cunt" to describe anything and everything it reasonably or unreasonably could be ascribed to, I want to find uses for "cockmongering".


Hmm. I'm sure you're all glad to have read that.


"She just had to go to work

He just had to go" - Guy Clark

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