Please join me in praying for the world’s Hazaras.
Have just come through one of the more painful exam periods in living memory. Hence no writing for a while. Seems also no complete sentences. Have hit the ground.
Summer holds potential for many wonderful projects, books to read, things to write and draw and sculpt. Now however I’m going to curl into a ball for a while.
OK so peace out and yeah ok.
Well, Christmas is less than a month away and you know what that means – at least if like me you’re a Southern Hemispherian freak – yes, summer is upon us. The reason why I have included falling snow on my blog is that this year summer feels rather oddly like winter. Not in delightful manner of softly falling snow which we Aussies forever dream of, mocked as we are by such depictions from American TV, coating our shop windows in fake white stuff and sending Christmas cards of peaceful little cottages nestled in softly rolling white hills, exuding a warm and tender, yea even beckoning light from within…no, an Australian winter, which means a city painted in seven shades of grey and a constant dripping rain, not even the warm, earthy scented and somehow passionate summer rain, but this dank soggy blanket dumped over everything. It’s cold. It shouldn’t be cold. I don’t like the cold.
I do love the Aussie Christmas, unique as it is in the world, and hope the joys of the season will chase away the gloomy sky and replace it with something more fitting. Growing up Christmas meant backyard cricket, water fights and then, when you’re a little older, lying in front of the fan glued to the lounge by your own sweat. The only thing missing from my Baptist family Christmases was the frosty VB beer. Ah, Christmas. What a magical time.
What does it mean to be a writer, and what does it take? I’m only in the very early stages of dabbling in writing, still finding my feet – or finding my voice, I should say. Posts come haphazardly because I don’t yet know how to throw something meaningful and well crafted out with anything like either frequency or regularity. I heard someone say recently that the best kind of writing is talking about the best bits of yourself. It expresses you, but the very best version of you and your voice that you can imagine. If that’s true, what do I want to say to people? And why in my everyday conversation do I not really think about that?
When I think about my art (which is about all I ever do with it these days) I realise that I’m motivated to express something profound about the act, the fact, of living. Of being human. That’s the very reason I started this blog too. In my introverted, reflective nature my art is a fundamental part of my speech. It’s how I seek to connect with others and express myself in a way I struggle with in everyday conversation. I’ve only begun to realise this recently – that I think I’m wired to articulate myself in creative ways and if I’m not doing that people are going to see me as being closed off from others. Clearly I need to bring it back into my life, including this writing, in a big way. Perhaps that’s why I hold back from investing myself in art – when I invest myself in it and put it on display, I put myself on display. And now that the thought’s occurred to me, I know it’s absolutely foolish. We all long for connection, long to open ourselves up, to know and be known. If we can’t let ourselves be vulnerable, we can’t know love.
And so I write. And hopefully sculpt. I’d be very happy for you to come along for the ride, if you can forgive the bad writing as I figure it out on the fly.
How do you connect with and open yourself up to others? And if you’re a writer, or any kind of artist, what does it mean to you? What motivates you?
I’m out. I’m done. Today I will delete my facebook account. Today I will step out from under the shadow of the all powerful Zuckerberg. Shake off the shackles. Run towards the light.
That this is a big deal saddens me. Well, such we have become, eh.
I’m not a conspiracy theorist. I’m not one of the crazies (much). But…I dunno. I’m no longer comfortable with the amount of power a few have over so many people’s personal info. Facebook isn’t public internet space, it’s the private property of a few shareholders. And the privacy issues are getting worse and continue to do so. It just feels like they’ve got to the point where they feel they can just piss on the public and the public, too addicted to their product, will just take it. Well, today I wash off the pee.
And it just sucks up so much time, but for what? You stay connected to people…but how many of these dudes from your past do you actually interact with? And when you do, well, think about it – when was the last time you connected with any substance. Our relationships are being trivialised.
And yeah and stuff. Join me. Join me today.
Viva la revolution
Oh my. A month since writing. I’ve been busy. Really busy. Except that week I was flat on my back at the beach, of course. Have you missed me, dear reader? Do you, dear reader, in fact actually exist beyond the hopeful world of my imagination? I mean, I know you looove the photo of an Antony Gormley sculpture I posted up awhile back. Not so much my carefully crafted, agonised over, born out of pain words lovingly lavished upon the world. Ah well.
I just bought a new book. Just now. Just walked back in the door a few minutes ago. Aussie book by a guy called David Malouf, novelist whose name I’ve heard before but can’t place on anything. It’s not a novel though, more like an essay I think.
It’s called: The Happy Life: The Search for Contentment in the Modern World.
I saw the title and thought I want that! The happy life, that is, moreso than the book itself. But I got the book anyway. And not because I foolishly think it holds the answers to the happy life, but it seems like it might be a thoughtful engagement with that universal drive that governs all our lives, the pursuit of happiness, and with that drive as expressed in the bewildering, fast paced, flashing, modern post-modern world. A drive I’ve been thinking about a bit lately. So I’ll read it and let you know what I think. It’s not a big book.
Ah happiness! What the hell art thou? And where are you? I’ve been thinking bout this modern life and how we navigate our way through it. No, strike that. I’ve been thinking about my modern life and how the hell I’m meant to navigate my way through it. Sorry to be selfish.
Thinking bout how we seem to be inextricably tied to the technological inter-connectedness of social media and the power over our private information a few seem to have. About how much of my life gets frittered away on trivial crap, because there’s always something flashing or some trinket or some junk food I can buy. Mainly been thinking about a girl who I liked for so long, finally went out on a date with this week and, I think, blew it merely by being a nervous shy and somewhat awkward little bugger. . I dunno. Not at my absolute cheeriest today.
Anyway, now I’ve offloaded onto you, please do stick around and I’ll endeavour to write something actually interesting soon.
Today was GORGEOUS. Spent the arvo in the park with friends, lying in the sun, eating, throwing a frisbee, talking about not much.
Ah, the simple pleasures.
But apart from that, I want to learn French. And no, not because it will make me irresistible to women everywhere. Which it will. Everywhere. I reckon learning a language will be fun, will stretch my horizons, broaden my cultural depths and appreciation of the world etc etc. and French as languages go is just really cool and irresistible.
So I dunno. Anyone got advice on the best way to learn a language if you’re already tied up full time and can’t sign up to a course? And don’t live in France, which clearly would be the best way? Hmm?
A la prochaine!