"The world is a fine place, and worth fighting for"

It’s no use deceiving, neither of us want to be alone. And you’re coming home.

I remember when the couple that almost everyone who reads this will know exactly who I’m talking about, the couple couple, started being that way (and you ALL know what way couples like those behave) we sat back and said: “Ever since he fell in love, his writing is … well, shit.”

I guess I’ve been deliberately writing a lot less lately, both here and elsewhere, solely because of that one passing comment at a party. Everything I do I have to check and re-check what I’m doing, what I’m saying, because the best writing never comes from other people, it comes from yourself.
I don’t why, and this is starting to explain it, but I’ve always hated autobiography… it’s just so tainted with the people around the writer. If only they were really the stories of the writer, instead of everything around the writer. You only get those really great stories from biographies. Great people written by others, have the potential to become magnificent. When great people write about themselves, they’re really writing about everything they encounter, everyone and everything that happened to them, how they saw it. Even like right now. Sorry to be an egotist, but this is average writing, for exactly the reasons I just wrote.

Contradictory.

Contradictory, I am contradictory. I am not a person, I am people.

Ok, so what I’m really trying to get at here, is that I get a certain feeling just before I write a blog entry. It’s indescribable, it’s like a longing, or an emptiness, this big thing that needs to be filled. Or even like a weight in my stomach, and every word makes it lighter, until posting is like an orgasm. Sometimes I can go ages without blogging, and sometimes I want it all the time, every day. It’s really a lot like sexual frustration – only not like it at all.
You know that feeling you get when you walk out of a movie? Like you’re still kinda absorbed in the film, in the characters, like you were really there and in the harsh light of the foyer it’s being torn away from you. And you can try to hold onto that special feeling, but outside stimuli gradually erode the film from your emotions, and it just becomes a film. Only in your memory. But for a moment you get this weird feeling in your stomach that’s kind of like loss.
That’s the closest I can come to describing how I know when it’s time to blog. It’s like, emotionally, at a point in my life or in my day or week or whatever, something is being torn away from me like a great movie aftertaste. I have to somehow express feelings and stories and metaphors and meaning in general in words. I need, desperately crave, like a junkie craving, to convey things to people. It’s such a strange and overpowering desire. And sometimes I have to stop and check myself, because relationships do that to you. They throw around your feelings, and sometimes you imagine you need to write all these wonderful feelings and ideas down, because you get that fake need to convey, and it comes out shit. To continue the analogy, like methadone to heroin – an inadequate and fake way to crush that stomach flip.

So that’s what I’m doing, if you wonder why I keep doing this, for no readers, or why I do it so erratically, and not so often, it’s because I need to assess my ability. My ability to write, and to write detached, and truly intelligently.
Sarah Kane wrote this play (her 5th and last) called 4.48 Psychosis about her struggle with depression and it’s a dark and disturbing exploration of demons of the mind. And then soon after writing it she killed herself - it reads like a suicide note in the form of theatre.
And I really don’t like it. Wait, no, that’s wrong, I really like the play, and I really think it’s important, but I don’t think it’s a good piece of writing. I do not think Sarah Kane is a good playwright, and I certainly don’t rate her as most theatre professionals do as one of the most important writers of the last few decades. She reeks of herself, she reeks of average. She needs her own reality to lend weight to her writing, what a load of shit. A sane person could have written a piece like 4.48 and it would be considered “fake”, whereas that would be so much of a greater achievement. Kane wrote her mind out, and lo and behold it’s interesting. I want to see a play as good as 4.48 Psychosis by a mentally stable person. Then I will rate them as important contributors.

Kane’s second play Phaedra’a Love is playing in Perth this month, I can’t remember where, but there was a poster for it in the Moon the other night. I suggest you see it, it’s a lot better literarily than 4.48 and you’ll be able to talk snobbishly about how up to date you are with who’s important in the playwright world and what theatre’s supposedly “all about” these days.

Sarah Kane makes me sick with average. I bet she was dependent. I’m failing not to be.

We need a parade. Or a point-proving monologue.

“Ahem”, to be read in a kind of old man/south park/lady at the front of Guns N Roses Civil War/cute gravelly voice.

Ahem… I only wanted to say, that, that everywhere I’ve been this week has been grossly uh, under-populated with anyone with any respect. Hem, to find all these places, to find all these people whose stories drive so deep… I, I just couldn’t find the eyes to see them, when they couldn’t read the stories on my face. [cough] I never felt alone, because, see, because my family and my wife and all my friends have always been around me, and they are these people that stop me from being lonely, but then like I said, this week, it’s as though… eh… it’s as though I suddenly realized no one shares anyone else’s point of view. They can agree, of course, they can agree but you know but they never have the same point of view. Ah, I only wanted to say before you judge me for my actions, that because it means I want you to at least have heard if not understand, the reasons for my actions. But also, ahem, not just the reasons for them but the reasons why you are unable to judge me for them. You cannot see, you did not see, you will not see, because we are born blind. We are shifted into units of people, sufficient, life creatures separate from other life creatures and we are blinding. I have been torn from my life force, and that is why I have chosen to kill myself. By the time you’re reading this, then by this I’ll be dead, by this I’ll be returned to a place without perspective. And in, in taking myself from my perspective, I … ahem… I remove myself from your judgment of this action. I only wanted to say, post mortem heh, friends, that this world is over-populated by people without respect. You cannot see me and so you do not respect me, and I, ahem… I finally found my eyes. Make a difference, respect my eyes.


For the benefit of those who didn’t read/couldn’t be bothered understanding my preamble that was obviously fiction, and to serve a point. Fuck I can’t believe I have to explain that.
Go to hell, I’m fucking arrogant but some people just don’t even try. You don’t have to be Sarah Kane for me to be tired of your personality and your constant whiny self. I’m arrogant, but sometimes I hate myself for that because it takes away my righteous anger at other self absorbed philistine assholes. I just look like the screaming man on the street telling everyone they’re out of place.

I don’t need other people in my writing, but I don’t exist without them. I need other people, and some days I feel weak for it, then I remember, if I need other people, I don’t need me. It’s one or the other, and then I get content. If I need others, then I am built of others, and they construct me. I am only layers.

I’m not a person, I am not only people though, I am other people. I am layers.

Make me.