Marc Vann Fan

(no subject)

So, I've been talking to a guy. The amazing thing is not only does he write well, but he's attracted to me, which is weird, I know... The only thing that worries me is that I look at his picture, I remember how our first meeting went, what he looked like. And, I think I feel nothing. Usually when I want someone, it's different, I can feel it in my gut that I would like to touc them, talk to them, love them even.

For him I hope it is the fact that our first meeting was not ideal. I'm willing to give anther one a shot, but, the fact that I feel nothing so strongly, so early, really scares the crap out of me. Otherwise, thematically, mentally, personally, he's ideal. And I hate myself for being so, iffy. You'd think after wanting something for so long it wouldn't bother me, but for some reason, it does.
Elegance

Oh Blink But...

Well, well, I haven't been here in a while. How so, how so everyone? Things failed with mistress boy, and we never hooked up. He stopped replying to emails, so I assume he wasn't serious. Fuck that. I am still not, connected with anyone, contrary to the long list of questions Centrelink sent me querying whether I was. I still do want to, date, to do things, with other people, but I'm still settling into uni. The unfortunate thing for being a 2nd semester intake student is that most people already have their clicks. And the one vaguely cute guy is, kinda crazy. Hope though, ah, hope.

Uni has been pretty good. Obviously I generally enjoy the creative writing class most, especially the tutorial. I had a holy shit moment the other week because I had to workshop a piece of mine I've been working on for an assignment. People mulled it over, and the constructive criticism, which I am rather new to, actually helped quite a lot. Then afterwards the teacher stopped, when the classroom was empty and said, and I paraphrase here, that it was really good, except he didn't want to keep banging on about it in front of the other students, and that it might eventually, once I'd fixed it up a bit, be good enough for Grok (Uni magazine) publication. Wow right? I mean, really, since it only took me an hour or so to write, and fairly immediately at that.

Then I got sick, which I suspect is kind of a partial follow up from the virus I hooked a month or so ago. On some medicine now and feeling better, got an extension for one essay, yay, handed in another, and did one little criticism thing that was half par but only worth 10%. Hmmm.

I admit, I've become just a little bit of a craigslist watcher. It kind of amuses me when I find interesting voyeuristic type of people on there, that in some part of life, just seem a little bit like my inner quirks. I suppose, what I really seek out of life is someone a bit like Sid, adventurous and, I hesitate to use the word, but compatible. I am not out seeking a connection that is just normal, just, average and daily and easily describe. I mean, seriously, if I ever manage to establish a bond with another human being, I'd damn well hope they'd be just a little bit kinky. That being said, it has got me to thinking more about where I stand with the general concept, the act, as it were, but that's probably best saved for a private post when I feel a little less guilty and a little more inclined towards debauchery.


I am not minding the uni experience so far. It's a little fast, but I far more appreciate Curtin than I did Notre Dame. It's bigger, damn way bigger, and it just feels more like an educational home for me. More community, less compartmentalisation of personality, to put it altruistically.


I am still kind of hoping that I get to do a bit of travel one day. I am considering getting a job, but still, I'm trying to settle first, get my mind back to square one, because it got pretty messed up earlier on in the year.


Either way, I hope all is well guys. Sazi, I need to hear from you soon, same as anyone else who feels inclined. Sorry for not being around, but my internet has been out for about three weeks. Finally got it back last Thursday. Note, people, iiNet as a provider is cool, just be prepared to wait a while if something catastrophic happened.

It's fun though, I get to try and use 25G of fast internet before the 7th next month. :P


On a different note, is anyone around here in primary or English education as a profession? I've been kind of considering lately what I might do with my degree, or future degrees. Clearly I'm not going to become famous overnight, as much as I would hope, so I'm trying to give vague pokes at other career choices that involve writing. As much as I have horrible stories of how awful and time consuming teaching is, it seems a somewhat logical path. I guess it'd be lovely to teach English to little kids, even creative writing. I mean, I look at the way some people write these days and it’s shocking. A lot of what I am able to do today as a writer, clearly came from my teachers and the sense of duty that they passed on to me in my writing. So, ah, yes. Talk people, talk, masses.
  • Current Music
    Sew My Name - Josh Pyke
Weird

Wheep! Freedom! Happy Fun Time!!

Well, good god, today a normal day, as far as I myself am concerned. I got a little bit high earlier, not through drugs, no, no, I just think I am a little low on serotonin or something like that. Sometimes, I think the OCD makes my head go spacey. I'll eat a placebo banana later.

For those of you who haven't been updated, I was, unofficially, out of Notre Dame on the 19th of May. I am, of the 10th of June, officially withdrawn from my course. I have made an application to my desired course at Curtin, and I'm hoping to all hell I get in. For one of the first times in many months, I have a slightly less concrete idea of what I want to do with my life, and I feel, free, in a way, of the banality and dread knowing the entire next seven years of my life imposed.

I have finished, as of now, all my catch up TM writing, and am trying to quickly post the prompts up to their respective journals. Backdating them all is a bitch, made slightly easier by a random time generator and the multi tab facility of the shiny Internet Explorer window.

For the first time in my life I have an opportunity to try my hand at something that isn't prompt work. Admittedly, I am scared, scared that I am not as great a writer as I imagine myself to be, that maybe, I cannot write long things, and maybe I may only be suited for prompts of the rest of my life. I hope not. Also comes the problem of which subject, which story to embark on trying to turn into a novel kind of thing, or at least an elongated story.

With all the Sheri Tepper I've been obsessively gobbling up over the past year, my feelings about Aleniel have changed, an interest piqued as it were for my own little alien world. However, although dusty, the story of Eras and Eliza still tugs at my heart strings. Paderau, without a face and a direction is hard to think of, but she does occasionally poke me to work on her, develop her, because I think she could be an immensely powerful character in her own right, given the right setting.

A quick rundown, though, as I'm aware many people, for those few who read here, may not have read about who the hell I'm speaking about. Ah well, more on that later, I'm being dragged away from the computer.


Conqueeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesttttttttt... Stupid song.
  • Current Music
    Cafe Sounds
Connection

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck...

Worst fucking weekend ever. I mean, Jesus Fucking Christ people, what is your collective affiliated problem? For anyone who ever wandered by here, it's clearly bloody apparent I can and will be as loopy as a mad hatter. I am also, as a human being, with a predisposition to making mistakes of supremely high idiocy. I have my own free will, yes, my own free moral choice, so, seriously, give me a fucking break.

All this week my mother rabbits on about pasta, about spaghetti. Turns out, when we get to IKEA to get food, and she can't make up her mind, and I buy her pasta, she completely bloody freaks! Ok, so, pasta isn't her favourite food, but, fuck, this pithy, oh, you decide, make a decision for me, I don't know, I'm worried about money excuse is getting old, and how. Last night, God fucking damn it, it's late, and her leg is sore so I try to do the washing up so she can go to bed. She's making a grump about it, and then, oh fuck, it's a trap. One of those bloody fucking traps my grandma plays on us all the time for sympathy and attention. I start the washing up and I get this bloody freaking tirade, about how I don't do shit, about how ungrateful I am, about how she cooked sticky frickin chicken and how I didn't say thank you. So what, I have time off, I spent some time playing Pokémon! They went out, I let them go out to the drive in movie, and they get home, ok, so, my bad, I didn't clean up after dinner, but, fuck, did I deserve that? Like this Cesar Milan she adores so much. Apparently, I'm a fucking dog, and I damn well live in the moment. I have a memory of the past, and of social niceties, but I don't try to play games as well as I used to, I inevitably fall into traps because I'm always so damned busy balancing myself out and resisting the urge to draw metaphorical blood. Do you think it's funny, shouting at me? Do you? Would you like to push me over the edge?!

So I wander out, it's like, two in the morning at this point, and I wander out to the backyard. And, oh fuck, I sit on the outside swing for two hours, two whole damn fucking hours in the blithely freezing cold. No, apparently, no one missed me, but it's a different situation isn't it? If you lose a child at a supermarket, you fucking damn well give a shit. If your own kid disappears for two hours inside a tiny house, you couldn't care less. Of course, it's not like it was any better when I got back inside, after being locked out, and went to bed.

Then this morning, she pretends like nothing happened! More bad words because I didn't get to church, at all, and was serving, and then we go out for lunch. And then, it's all fine, all laughter and drooling happiness and, fuck. So my brother has bought a new cupboard, and suddenly, before he builds it up, she has this revelation, they could switch rooms! Oh, fuck, it's not like I haven't been asking for some curtains, asking for some help with my room, damn, fucking, damn, I have been asking, and, so what, I wasn't forceful, but, Jesus, who can be forceful when I nearly executed my mind in going through a near term in a place I clearly didn't belong. So she goes straight to him, straight to him, and he's delighted.

Thinking it through without emotion, it is logical that he needs a bigger room, because his current room is cramped. Thinking it through illogically, he now gets triple the storage space I have, and still a door. While I get left with this damned fucking adjoining room, and no damned freaking idea how to make curtains.


And, oh blithering stupidity, I hate myself. I have been, shouted at, rumpled, for the past two days, and, the black hole is opening, it's fucking, it's whirling. I sit here, and I think I can do so much, and still, I want to dissolve in tears. Last night was the closest thing I have come to crying in months, but I didn't, no, not really. I just bit down on my thumb and wished it away until the emotion died down and the shivering took over. And still, if I could, just have niceness, if people could just not irk me when it's obvious I would be irked at what they were doing, it would be easy!

But no, it isn't. When I was twelve I made a choice, and while the choice of briefly killing emotions held me through until I could be reasonable again, while I may feel them now, that shut down mechanism is still here. Still here, always here, saving me from the full brunt of depression when it gets too hard.


I don't wish to change, because I'm finally mostly happy with who I am. But, in some way, I can see the future, I know the realities of my life, my place in society. I know, right now, that the future of one brother is not good, is poor health and laziness, and, oh fuck, I hate him, so much, sometimes. Because I can see his future, and it is bad, it is so bad, so, all I see is that, all I respond to is that. And the other one, he can be pig headed, he is strong willed and domineering, of course, he's a man. He's the better of the two, but still, he is, different, and once he gets going, it's not often that he stops. Very bull at the gate, sharp horns and nice words, but, impatient, and full of jubilant arrogant youthfulness.


I hoped sleep would reset me, but not today. I want to cry and cry and cry, but I can't, I can't seem to, because the automatic response is to push it damn well back down. Writing saved me, writing helped save me also, but again, the awful side of that choice is revealed. I am not that excellent in speaking my mind, verbally speaking it as I could write it, the translation doesn't come out right, and emotions get in the way. Stupid emotions, get in the way, and I choke up, because when I try to be honest, I get shouted down, when I try to be honest, my brain can't do it. Yes when I write, I can say all this. And my mother says, oh, no one will ever read what you write, why don't you speak honestly to us, and all I can do is avert my eyes and turn my head. Wouldn't anyone else be ashamed of not being able to speak properly when they can write so well.


No, I achieve not much this past week, and it pains me. I desperately need some non-judgemental human connection, but I find none here, I find none in friends either, because what friends?! Really, I don't have a confidant. It's why I find so much solace in writing as two middle aged widowers I suppose. Ecklie killed emotion and was successful, more so than I was, and Sid, he triumphed over depression, more so than I have, sometimes, I think.


I learned a lot from Notre Dame, and I am trying, sometimes, very hard to let go of my ill thoughts and all this hate I feel. But, it's still there, the prickle at the back of my neck, the heat at the back of my neck that I identify as the feeling of OCD, of, swirling squished emotions and damaged thoughts. For every logical way to think about something, there is another side, and I never feel write doing either one. I either sacrifice my desires for the better good of others, or I grab what I want at their expense. And how is that fair to anyone? Them or me? Either way, I do something wrong, whether against my own self worth, or that of another person.



It is a funny thing, listening to people talk about those with depression, those who cut and injure, those who strangle themselves. Because, I'm a writer, fuck it, I can write those things, I have experienced a variation of those things, but, as is the nature of my disease, my condition, I don't outwardly express it. I simply squish it down, unhealthy as it may be, and move on. Stoic, perhaps, a little bit, but it's the best way, for me, to be functional.


If I won a million dollars tomorrow, I'd build a fence for my mother. I’d try to get another story on our house, and get some help so she wouldn't be running herself ragged all the time. Then, I'd get my own place, and I'd sit there, I'd spend little and try and see my way through.

The thing is, there is no escaping this place. For every amount of hate, there's periods of love. There comes that duality thing again. I love them when they are pleasant, but the moment they strike out, I shut down. On one hand, people should always generally try to be good to each other, and on the other, you stupid fucking girl, you know there is no utopia. I know, for love there is hate, for well wishes there is ill thought. It is inevitable, like stocks, that happiness must sometimes fall and anger reign supreme.



It's just, when it gets like this, when we're reminded that we are poor, that we have our own problems, I am no longer the good me or the reasonable me. I'm the twelve year old me who has shut down her emotions. With her basic wants and irrelevant needs, who latches onto the shiny in hopes that it will pull her through.


My brother got angry with me today, and swore at me and raged at me and asked me why I fucking quit forensics, why I fucking quit Notre Dame. He said what the fuck are you going to do with writing? What the fuck are you going to do with creative writing, it's so useless.



I feel useless. I hate it, but it's a storm, and, what can I do but to wait it out? That same brother, his mere presence annoys me, because I know his future and it looks bleak. Then, today, there was this illustrious chance, to move rooms and get a door and be able to hide away completely when I am sad and angry. Except my brother took it, my brother fucking took it. It shined in front of my face, but no one ever offered it to me. I should be happy he'll have more room, because he works hard and he deserves it, but the selfish part of me remains. Why not me? Curtains aren't going to help when the bad future brother sits in the other room, because, funnily enough, the empathic part of me picks up on his very being, and, and, I can't get away. His bleak future leaks off him like a tide and tries to drown me, and I sit here, metres away from him, and it's drowning me. Oh pity, it drowns me, but I am inadequate, and I can't speak my mind, I can't only type, and in typing I am best. But in typing, there is nothing, it doesn't change, and so, what happens to the anger? Hmm, I squash it, I kill it, I avert my eyes and down my head because really, I hate conflict.


If I won a million dollars tomorrow, I'd but a room, somewhere, where it was quiet and peaceful. There is no quiet and peaceful, no hiding, in a room with no doors. But I'm a middle class citizen, with no job, with a sick mother, with no money, no assets like some of my past school friends. Likelihood, my mother will never get her fence, my mother will never get her second story, and there will not be peace and quiet for me for a long, long time.


Recently I've become fascinated with the idea of single children. Something in a feminist sci fi novel I read made the point of, perhaps it would be a more civilised society if grandpa, grandma, mother, father, aunt, uncle, all concentrated on one child of the family, if the next generation considered of one child only. Sadly, sometimes I think I could agree. Reading this eco feminist stuff, God, it pains me, because I'm starting to see reality for a lot more than I used to.


*Sigh.* Tch, tch, stupid girl. Oh well, time to put on a pretence. If I pretend long enough, I usually absorb up the emotion I'm pretending to feel, and it gets better. I've begun to hate speaking though, and sometimes, I wish I were mute, because whatever I say, so often, doesn't have the desired consequence, and simply, goes nowhere.

Yet if I act mute towards them, which I already do, often enough, I am accused of ignorance and of selfishness, and it gets me nowhere. But neither does speaking, so, really, is there a right path at all. Right now, I think fucking not.


Yesterday, I talked to my brother, I got angry and I talked to him about how my mother had annoyed me, how I was sorry about having angered her. I let them go out last night, just them two, alone, and she comes home pissed off at me. Ok, I'm sorry, I should have done more. But, you know what he did? All the things I said to him yesterday afternoon, in presumed confidence, he said to my mother, while they were out last night. She practically quoted them to me verbatim. So, not only has speaking my mind got me into trouble, but apparently, my brother, as he is known to do, went straight to my mother the moment he was alone, and said every part of my angry words to her. So, now, who do I have? I still have no confidant, and now, I don't trust him anymore. I don't want to speak to him anymore, because anything I say, just gets parroted back to my mother. Yet not speaking to them, also gets me in trouble, so there is, what option? There is no fucking option.

I briefly entertained the thought of joining a nunnery today and taking a vow of silence. As a writer, I am really fucking sick of having to speak all the time, and having everything, every single thing, so very often, come out wrong.
  • Current Music
    Whatever...
Marc Vann Fan

Momentous...

*Rubs head.*

I've been purposefully sabotaging myself over the past threee days. Which scares me, a lot, because I'm conscious of it, yet, it's not like I can, I haven't, been able to stop.
Marc Vann Fan

(no subject)

I hate myself. It's been a long while, but I hate myself for feeling all this, any of this, any of this desire. If I hadn't started writing, oh sure, I'd probably be on antidepressants, I may have done worse things, but, it'd be different, right? I'd be a different person, and I wouldn't have this stupid fucking desire burning behind my collarbone.

When I was little, I wanted to be a vet, for the animals. Later, I wanted to be a nurse because of my mother. Later, I wanted to be a chef, because, hell, at least I could do that. And then I took on Sid. I was writing by then, and I took on Sid, and he echoed within me something that has, thus far, either caused me to take a correct path, or, alternatively, a path that ignores any relevant educational dislikes I may have.

I'm so sick, of being articulate and intelligent like this. Would it have been easier if I could have found a real hobby like everyone else? If I had gotten drunk at parties and killed my brain cells and then just, gone to do business or law? What kind of cruel punishment is this that I had to love the one thing, one of the many things that gets me nowhere?

I am, such a hypocrite. I wrote an essay on the use of reason; I explained how you can make moral, rational, well educated judgements with reason. You can have conviction by using reason to make up your mind, but, I can't. I've applied all the reason in the world, and every time I convince myself my life would be better doing something I may never feel anything for more than simply nobility of spirit, it all breaks down. I could have more money; I could have more security, more structure, more future. I could be respected, I could know, important things, life saving skills, so what is stopping me?

I've done good things in my life. I've managed to overcome the crippling stages of OCD. When that robbed me of my ability to read, when I hyperventilated when I read, even silently, I taught myself to read again. I taught myself that words didn't have to it any obscure pattern. I've helped people; I've talked to people when they're down. I try to be good, I try to have a conscience, I don't do drugs, I don't get drunk, so why on the green fucking Earth did I have to screw myself over like this?


I know that passion doesn't have to be felt about what you are learning about. I'm aware that all learning is not fun. I’m aware that I shouldn't, probably wouldn't enjoy the first semester of university anyway. It is my first approach towards tertiary education after all. But I shake now, I tear up now, I want to, scream now. People say, there will always be time for the thing I love. But there hasn't. There isn't time for writing, because what time I leave myself, I usually spend sitting in a blind panic, or drowning under wave after wave of mind numbing worry. I can feel the OCD coming back in the way I bite my nails, in the way I now have several scabs around my eyebrows after just sitting there with the tweezers picking the hair out.


I don't need meds, I don't need a shrink, because even if I can't believe in my own rationality, I know inside that it's probably true. I don't want meds, I don't want to block of what mental state I've worked so hard to achieve. But, god, I still, don't know. If I went after heart, I'd write, and well, look at that. I'd just be another writer in the slush pile, I'd just become the very thing I know I should hate, the irrelevant hopeful who believes they're something different. The truthful fact, is that I'm probably not. I'm no different from one hopeful writer to the next, I'm just part of that to be pile of bullshit. And year after year people get published, and it becomes harder to write anything worth publishing.


I've been thinking I want this for too long, and I've never given myself the chance to try it because I know, I've always known that doing creative writing would be dangerous. I've so longed to do art, and, while I try to apply reason, while I try to tell myself that, be honest, art is, for the lucky, for the special, for the, god fucking damned chosen, and that I'm just, another part of nothing. I've told myself that for so long, told myself that I'm special, but not that special, and, so hypocritical of myself, I only still half believe it.


I'm afraid, because if I keep feeling this, as strong as it is, this desire, as strong as it is. If I, if it, keeps coming back, even a few weeks apart at the time, I still lose so much of my time, agonising about it.

Tch, tch, I hate myself now, because I know what I'm meant to do in life. I should, I'm meant to, complete this degree, go into medicine, and toil away the rest of my life doing that, trying to get into forensic pathology. And, in one imagined future, what happens if I kill of writing in the process? Because right now, and as the work gets harder in the coming years, inevitably, I'll have no time to write. If I get into medicine, I'll need to break the confines of the time space continuum just to keep up. It's already happened, it always does happen when I go do study, when I go to do other educational things. I never write, I hardly write, and, I've done that for five years now, pretty much. I've started and stopped, I've invariably stopped writing for weeks, and then taken it up again later when he lack of it drives me to insanity.


Except this time, it isn't high school where the holidays are regular and the time can go by as it pleases. It isn't TAFE where I was generally good at managing my time, even if I didn't have the quickest knife skills.


I question myself know, learning all that I have about philosophy and thinking, and so on. Why do I do this to myself? Why did I choose to love writing? Why did I have to?

I made a promise when I was finishing year twelve and started to get depressed again. I saw, that writing helped me, and, god, I never wanted to stop, even then.

It's not true, saying that I'll make time, because the time won't be regular. It'll be weeks apart between writing, and then, I know, it'll probably disappear. And suddenly, I'll be thirty, or something, in a job, and, I'll realise that it's gone. And I'll be able to look back on this, I will remember the loss of writing, itself, and, good god, I know then I'll hate myself, just like I do now, knowing that I'm so purposefully trying to maybe, throw it away so I can try and love science, so I can try and stop, hating where I am now.

I appreciate all the opportunities my mum has given me, my gran has given me, my family has given me. I appreciate all that love and warmth. But what if I can never be happy doing this? What if, even if this passes, I become a doctor and realise, I don't want it?


I look at myself, I hate all this twisting crap I am putting myself through. Because I know, I see, that while I sit there and panic, I sabotage my university work. Instead of working on my essay, I sit here and write all this out because otherwise I'd cry. I try to write my essay, and I sit there, and the knot forms in my stomach and I pat my knees and drum my fingers, anything to distract myself from feeling blatantly irrational and lost.


A long time ago, when I was little, and I hated myself, I learnt to find beauty in who and what I was. When I was 13 I started writing in silly role plays in chat rooms. Then I found theatrical_muse, and I wrote there. From what I was, I grew up with writing, because it let me manage when I couldn't manage myself. Instead of turning to meds and shrinks, I wrote, and life became better.

And now? Where am I? I'm miserable because I can't follow my own rational logic, because I'm part writer, and I know, I know, that eventually, if I continue on with this, it'll drip away.


And yes, I know, maybe, so maybe part of this is heeby jeebies about exams, about the fact that I've sabotaged myself into ignorance about coursework, into unknowing and panic and pain. I know, I know, I know, that it's only first semester and I should give it another year. But, what is another year of science, with this burning behind my collarbone? That is noble? Oh sure it is, sure it is. Hell, I know it is, but, well, that's the thing.

I don't know.


I don't want a shrink, I damn well never want meds. But, gauphin, I'd give something for a fairy godmother or a future telling soothsayer.
  • Current Music
    Something...
Dust

Mea Culpa...

You know what's happened now? I can't decide. And that little demon voice pipes up. What about your future? What about stability? Have you seen how you've grown up? Do you want your own children to have to scrimp and save and wait until the next pay day, or the next cheque from whomever? Oh sure, it was alright for me, I've loved my life, my childhood, honestly I have, but the stability ends with my line, I can't rely back on my own parents to help support me, largely, financially, for a large majority of my life. I don't want them to. I have a mind and a good body, and I want to do something important.

Snicker snack, it whispers, wetting these vile lips of mockery. Tch, tch, it reprimands. Weakness and fallibility dear thing. Did you really think you'd enjoy the first semester of uni after the easy ride at TAFE? Did you really think you'd want to be here a couple of weeks before exams? Did you ever think you'd really enjoy it through the first year, like you might, oh, say, the next? Tch, tch, girl, look at all the people you've told, look at all those people, look at your mother, the father who helped you with your essay when you were down. What about them? What happens to them if you give up and quit? Won't they be disappointed? Of course your mother says what you want her to hear, she just wants you to be happy? Can't you tell, you impudent snipe that she'd much rather have you be better off, then trying to be a writer when, fuck, there's so little chance? You're probably not such a good writer after all, so what's the point of pursuing it when you're only so good, at so much of it? Not like the rest of them, the people who write, they probably have something you don't. Look at Notre Dame, girl, look at the location and the people girl. What was the point to do all this, owe all this, and then quit? Where to then, girl, after this? What would you do if you wrote, girl, hmm? Go on to what? It's not like people scream for creative writers, girl, you'd have to find your own way. Do you want to get stuck writing in a newspaper, girl, don't you dislike journalism girl, do you or not? What about column writing girl, what is the point in that? Where would Curtin get you girl, except to satiate your own wants and then fail miserably at being anything worthy in life?

This huge monster of questions and anger and doubt, and it's paralysing me from moving on, or setting in motion the actions towards change.


It's the same rhetoric, and I'm sick of it. If I leave Notre Dame, I'm throwing away a career in medicine. If I stay, I'm throwing away a career in writing. I sat down to write my essay today for communications, and I procrastinated something stupid. I sat down to write for Ecklie and Sid today, and I probably got out an essay length, easy. Not that learned creative writing would be that easy, but, oh, why couldn't it be just that much easier then this? Wouldn't the grasping of ideas about writing, be easier then this? It's out at Bentley, but I spent a year practically next door to Curtin at TAFE last year, so the only thing I'd miss is the food, the art coffee place. I'd spend more petrol, because I'd probably have to drive, but still.


And for just as many people who say go for it, I speak to people and they say, you should stick with it longer, you should, keep going, and it will get better. I value the time I've spent at Notre Dame, I've learnt a lot of things I wouldn't have if I had gone to Curtin, but I don't know how I can go on with this in my heart. Every time I think I'm over not writing, over not learning about writing, it screams and burns, and my fingers quiver. And then, when I think about it, try to taste what it would be like; science draws me back again, those whispering words of loveliness and security, and promise. The argument beats back and forth, inside my head, my heart, my soul, maybe. Do or don't, fly or flee? What kind of a person am I if I stay? Would I be noble and trustworthy, able to stick to any problem? Would I be honourable for doing this, and seeing that I have a good life ahead of me, or am I building a dream on false foundations? And if I wrote, well, there's a big emptiness in the job department. If I wanted to write, what would I end up writing, because surely, who hires creative writers? You have to be good first, and you have to have what they want first, and you have to know how to go about it first, all this malarkey.

I used to hate languages at school, because I could never grasp them. But I love origins, now, I do, I love etymology and definitions and different words. Anatomy is funny with its word hierarchy, its unique Latin-esque nature, but it's still anatomy underneath.

What do I get at the end of three years? Do I get madness or success, and what about the four years of medical school after that, if they happen? Then the other countless years spent trying to do forensic pathology, when, seriously, it's not like there's a great freaking training program over here.

I'm scared, because I think Ecklie and Sid are changing. Ecklie was a bit stiff last time I took to him, and Sid was, today, I don't know. He was happy, but, it was like he was happy just so I could make myself feel better. And now, well, of course, I'm wavering like a little brittle leaf in the wind. Do or don't. Risk or not. And when I think I can jump, I look down at the sheer height of my decision, the sheer weight of it, and I start to walk back to Notre Dame, towards science, and, well, the fairly assured weight of writing just sitting there, like a to directional black hole. Simultaneously propelling me away from science with lust for art and then pushing me back for worry it won't work out, and I'll just be another stupid arts student with a uni degree, with bills to pay from that uni degree, who will never amount up to much because she dreamed too high...


I may be have a predisposition to have an inherent nature to worry, but don't get off at the thought that I enjoy hating myself. I don't, it's just a habit to see things from wavering aspects. To think of it one moment in one way, and then after looking at the consequences, the changes, shifting to another perspective, a position changed.


My mother isn't feeling very well, and I think it'll break me to see the pain in her eyes, the worry and the inquiry if I tell her. And, maybe it wouldn't happen, but I'm fairly sure, looking back on the past, that when I try to talk about writing, I cry, and when I cry, I can't get over how brilliant it is, how, I yearn for it, yet still, have no clue in the world, about where I really belong. Sid inspired me into this, the philosophy of it inspired me into wanting to be something medicine like, to do with science. I pushed back the old terror, and I surged forward.

When I got accepted into Notre Dame, I was happy, I was lucky; I was a lot of things. But I wasn't giddy. The day before it started, I was terrified, which, could be expected. When I go to anatomy, I don't look forward to it, it's merely there. The best I could shadow this against is all those cases of post natal depression I read about, examine through. I've got the kid now, but sometimes I feel attached, and sometimes, well, sometimes, I just want to put the thing down, and run away screaming to something better behaved and enticing.


I feel as if, if I go through with this, while I'm giving myself a fantastic opportunity, I'm also denying what has driven me all these years. Yet, if I give myself over to writing, while I might enjoy it more, that's only a might. It could just as equally be a terrible experience, because it'd be bigger classes, different layout, something new and weird to get used to. It might change who I am as a writer, it might rip me apart and I'll never be the same. How did I go form hating the idea of writing education, to wanting it so badly?


For every comment I get that urges me to fly, for every bit of every song, or every post secret I read about taking after your own desires and urges, I hear a comment about blaming your problems on things that can't be helped, or people always looking at the grass on the other side of the fence because it seems greener, but, it's not.


Sazi asked me the other day why I wanted medicine. I want medicine because I could secure a place in the world that wouldn't be subject to so much uncertainty as writing was. I could also help people, I could, in forensic pathology, speak for those who can't, and I think that's noble. I want it because sometimes it speaks to me, but I look at it now, and, what draws it to me is more empathic. I may desire to cut up dead bodies in the name of that noble nature, but where does that lead me? More dead bodies. More cutting, more silly suits to protect clothes, more breathing masks, and knowing laws, and things. It's procedure, and, while it may be creative, I can hardly say it'd be like writing. And then, if I wrote, well, oh, I may be happy, I may be a lot of things, but all I know right now is that I'd love to write. But at the end of the three years, if I did it, well, all I'd know is how to write better, how to write more, with structure intended. If I did it, and got pushed out the door, then what do I have? A degree, and no structure, no apprenticeship or internship with which would follow with cooking or medicine.


And, I don't know. For every time I think I can, all those questions come flooding back until I think I can't. Then I force all the screaming to go away for a while, tell it metaphorically to piss off, but sure as hell, it'd be back again.

That is what I dread. For every few weeks I can push the desire to write away, eventually it floods back. I'm a useless uni student like this, because I keep getting distracted by the what ifs. I can make peace with not cooking for a while. But this, I can't make peace with, and, I don't know what to do. It's still sending me made, and I still, can't bring myself to explain it in this much detail to my mother, the only other really relevant person in this matter aside from well, dad, gran, the rest, who all seem less, required of the moment.


*Headesk.* Recently I've learned about morality and rationality, and bad faith and people who think emotions should rule the day. I read Karl Marx and I almost believed him, I read other things, and I believed them. I read my philosophy essay about rationality and emotion, and I believed that I could solve it, my problem, by reason alone. But I can't. And every day that passes is a weight at some minute or the other. And every weight drags me down, or floats me up until I don't know whether I'm up, down or all about.

I'm an insecure person who dreams of security. I just can't rectify the promise of security, against what this is doing to me. Then immediately, I call myself a weak infant who can't stick to what she chooses, what she place she puts herself in, and the old resilience sticks up its thumb and waves angrily, and pokes at me to stay put, stay the course, see the end of it through. But wouldn't it be better to get out now, if I could, then in three years, when it'll be three more years gone?

See? This is two thousand and a bit words? I just worded my way through over 500 words of what I need to write for a fucking essay. Just complaining, I put together something with a beginning, a middle and an ending. Seriously. How is this even critically thinking the matter out? It’s just complaining. Complaining, inaction and worry. Plus making people reading this get fed up with all the complaining. Ick.

I need a hug.
  • Current Music
    RPA Theme Song
Endless

How?

I don't get people who do degrees in philosophy, or, communications, or, hell, art. That's part of the problem. Part of me deeply desires to do something so I could get in touch with my thoughtful side, but, that niggling thought pops up. What do you do with those kinds of things, where you don't end up, well, digging your own hole into poverty? Not as strong words as that, but the right terms escape me.

The thing I've come to dislike the most about university is the concept that I'm an artist, in my deepest of hearts, doing a science degree. Part of me is analytical, and likes science, but sometimes I feel that I'm transcending the level at which I've been able to like science so far. I find so much more fulfilment in my philosophy core unit, even in the one I'm doing in communications, because they let me think, they let me explore. They're not rote learning, remembering this fact and shoving with that fact, and trying to find cohesion.

But, I should try to find cohesion, but, but, but, all these things I should be doing. I should change my mindset; I should try different angles of looking at tertiary life. But how can I love something to my shoe soles, how can I love science, when it's not what is in my deepest of hearts? I mean, it is, in part, but art, and thought, philosophy, thinking, all that, it screams, it seems to, scream louder. Yet, maybe my priorities are wrong, maybe, my mind is set up wrong, and I'm looking at it wrong. Maybe I'm wanting what I can't have, simply because I can't have it, as the old adage goes.

I don't know, but I read about 13 year olds getting book deals, I read Sheri Tepper. I go to the art gallery cum cafe near uni and, I'm jealous of it all, I'm envious of these people who get to paint, and design, and explore. I think I even resent, in a minor fashion, all the architect offices around Notre Dame, because they're building, they're creating.

I also dread eventually having to deal with living people, if I do go on with this. No, I don't hate the living, I actually like being alive, I like the idea of kissing and loving, and talking, but, medically speaking, I do better with things that are dead. I prefer it when we do dissections in class, over observing living things, because I can get into it with ease. I don't look forward to having to learn all these things about living people, when I'd really, rather get on with pathology. Yes, yes, I need to have an understanding, and all that, but what is the point of knowing that this or that extends or flexes this or that when the people I want to help are dead? For the background, yes, I know, I know, but, ah, it weighs on me.

I don't cry, I find especial difficulty in expressing myself adequately, so this would be one of the few places where I can talk, and have things come out like I want them to. When I open my mouth to try and convey my feelings, I don't know, my words get lost, my diction isn't the same.

Oh, I know crying would do me a deal of good, so I could mourn over the little baby of my artistic life that I'm never going to have. I wish I could cry, but like Ecklie, I think I've killed it. When crying was bad for me, when crying meant losing control and being swallowed by OCD, by depression, by all that, I couldn't let myself cry, because it was losing, it was to lose the fight. And now that I can cry and still live on, I can't.


I don't know. I wish I could stop complaining, I wish I could throw myself into it and not look back, but sometimes I feel all this weighing on me, and I wish I could change, I wish, something could be different. I wanted this, I did, and now, well, I'm not sure. But that’s always me, always not sure, always making a decision based on reason, and expectation.

Now and then I go and look at the Curtin website, I look at that creative writing major, and I seethe, quietly I bubble and boil, and I vehemently despise those people who get to be there. Except, God, it's tertiary education, and one uni is bound to be as bad or as good as another uni. All courses are at a tertiary level, so what difference does it make? I've already bought my books; I've already spent my money and hedged my bets. It makes me wonder about alternate universes.

Somewhere, is there an alternate universe with me in it doing that course? And how better off is this imaginary me? Is she wishing she knew what science was? Is she dreaming of science? How I'd give so much to know what she was going through.

But no, I can't cry, I don't date, I don't go out and my writing has been almost nonexistent since February. Writing is one of the only things that makes me purely happy, and, lately, when I write, it flows differently, because I'm thinking, how long can I give to writing, before I have to go do my lab book or my homework, or this or that. And I realise, that, this or that is more important, and later when I think I can go back to it, I don't.

I haven't written for many hours, for ages, and it's sending me mad. It's making me mad, and I wish, I could shout at my family, look at me, look at how I can't write, how I can't sit and wallow in the words, and look, look what it does to me. See what ill madness this has caused?

But then I feel guilty. Because writing is a hobby, and as a hobby, it should have a place as a hobby should. A minor enjoyment, a tiny titbit to wallow in during the wee hours of the night. Not an all consuming passion like it is for me.

So I kill it, I put Ecklie aside and he looks at me, I put Sid aside and he murmurs at me. I put Eras and Eliza aside and they scream at me. And I look at the sunset and it explodes at me, because none of my characters will see the books I feel I, they, belong in, they'll never have me to describe a sunset like that for them.

University has made me a confused and vile bastard of a creature. I tried to find the art in science, and I've come to realise that there is none. There is only art where Sid is, at the end of it all. But not here, not with this weight and this concern.


I heard some people in a cafe last week talking about funding for what I gathered was some artist support program. I kept looking at them and wondering if they could see what I sometimes think is literally oozing out my pores. I kept looking at them, but I'm not at an artist, I'm only some girl with her uni books, I was only some girl who wasn't a part of their world.

This is the most I've hated myself in a long time. But like all the time I've spent hating myself over the years, inevitably, I'll move on, and inevitably, I'll kill off another little part of myself.


I promise that this wouldn't change my writing. I promised that I'd never let myself get into another year 12 situation ever again where I almost stopped writing completely. But I have, and, God, it boils at me. It sieges at me, and when I build up the fortress again, it never seems to last for long.


Life is good, but these moments of pity, piety and despair are like what it is when I write fluidly, when I see the sunsets and feel the characters. They're overwhelming to the point of complete and utter annihilation.
  • Current Music
    Nobody Knows - Pink
Eye Dots

Consideration...

Life goes on. *Grin.* In some ways, I'm no different than who I was a year ago, or the year before. People are either too old and uninterested, or my age, and not stimulating enough. They are either smart and witty and 23, or cute and blank like a slate and 19. People still tell me I should go out and get drunk to relax, and I feel like telling them that if they really wanted to be my friend and wanted to spend quality time with me, we'd be discussing science fiction and giggling about Star Trek. I'm still not sure whether it's my fault or not that I think half the average university population are as boring and droll as old hell.

There are new friends, but once again I find that they're class friends, coffee friends, not going out friends, because, honestly, half of them are older, and those that are my age, are loud, and want to get drunk! Anybody I find interesting is already married with children and the little leaflets of life and being busy spread all around them.

Meh.

And the creativeness still screams and screams and pounds on the walls of my chest so that I get insecure, so that I curl up into a little ball and, I'm scared. It's like having a symbiote eating away at me, all this worth, and, creativeness and sickly honey sweet imaginings of other worlds and places I don't belong.

But life goes on, and I'm torn away to a place I want to go, but I also feel I partly don't belong. So in time, perhaps, it'll sort itself out, because I can't disentangle one part of myself from the rest. No, I can't, no, no, I can not.

I sometimes wish my mother used the internet and could find all this worth, all this angst and wonderment. Then what would she think of me? But even if I left it up on the screen, again and again and again, she would fail to see anything. Curious the spurred differences between ages. Curious indeed.
  • Current Music
    The Moribund Tree and the Toad - Pan's Labyrinth OST
Marc Vann Fan

*Wheep!*

I have immense stalking win. Just tracked someone from one website where they had no email address, to their twitter account.

*Grin.*
  • Current Music
    Silence! Almost...