How insulting, upon not getting a ticket in the AFL Grand Final ticket ballot, to get a promotional email this afternoon from the AFL informing me that if I want I can come along to their Premiership Party, an after-game event being held at the conclusion of this year's AFL Grand Final.
It's all part of new and improved service the AFL offers people on Grand Final day.
Here's a new idea on improving your service, AFL ~ give more tickets to the fans. I have gone to almost every Melbourne game this year. Paid for a membership at the start of the year. Have done so for the past 17 years in a row. But I couldn't get a ticket to the game because there were only 15,000 made available to my club. And 15,000 to Sydney. So 30,000 tickets all up made available to the people who go to see the game, in a ground which at its capacity holds 100,000.
Don't insult me.
And go you Hawkers.
I just went to the newsagent to buy Anthony a copy of The Smith Journal. This is sort of kind of the male version of Frankie, the magazine superstar that bucked the trend by establishing its very own niche in the current uber-difficult publishing landscape by simply being what none of the others are - itself. Indeed, in its writer's guidelines Frankie says that if you can imagine your piece somewhere else, it's maybe not for Frankie.
I like Frankie, but I'm most certainly at the old hag end of its demographic. In fact, I'm about six years over it. But what it does is inspire me because it's sweet and quirky and itself, and its founders went for it and succeeded. And it inspires me because it's Frankieness is such an individual feel compared to other mags, and so when I flick through the magazine stand at the newsagents every once in a blue moon and never find the magazine that I want to read, seeing Frankie sitting there gets me to thinking that maybe there's other people not finding the magazine they want to read either and that maybe there's a market for a wide diversity of reading instead of the tonnage of same ole dreary women's mags.
The kind of magazine I want to read has a bit of whimsy mixed in with a bit of intellectual stuff. I guess it's sort of kind of geared towards women, or if not, it readily encourages the feminine - as long as it's not boring trite bullshit about beautifying your exterior. I envisage a regular spot devoted to exploring a particular philosophical idea. I envisage a short story each edition, along with some badass creative nonfiction and investigative journalism. I envisage a regular section devoted to big historical events of the past that may or may not have trickled down to affect us in the present. I envisage the occasional whimsical rambling, a la McSweeney's, which are sadly lacking in magazines. I envisage lots of creativity and lots of art.
It's a little broad, granted. But it could possibly work. For the people out there like me who can't find the magazine on the shelves that they want to buy.
I can't see that magazine on the shelves anywhere. Maybe I need to invent it :)
~ ~
Anyways, this is not getting my essay written. What is it about procrastination that makes everything that is not your essay urgent and delightful to involve yourself in right this minute? :)
I like Frankie, but I'm most certainly at the old hag end of its demographic. In fact, I'm about six years over it. But what it does is inspire me because it's sweet and quirky and itself, and its founders went for it and succeeded. And it inspires me because it's Frankieness is such an individual feel compared to other mags, and so when I flick through the magazine stand at the newsagents every once in a blue moon and never find the magazine that I want to read, seeing Frankie sitting there gets me to thinking that maybe there's other people not finding the magazine they want to read either and that maybe there's a market for a wide diversity of reading instead of the tonnage of same ole dreary women's mags.
The kind of magazine I want to read has a bit of whimsy mixed in with a bit of intellectual stuff. I guess it's sort of kind of geared towards women, or if not, it readily encourages the feminine - as long as it's not boring trite bullshit about beautifying your exterior. I envisage a regular spot devoted to exploring a particular philosophical idea. I envisage a short story each edition, along with some badass creative nonfiction and investigative journalism. I envisage a regular section devoted to big historical events of the past that may or may not have trickled down to affect us in the present. I envisage the occasional whimsical rambling, a la McSweeney's, which are sadly lacking in magazines. I envisage lots of creativity and lots of art.
It's a little broad, granted. But it could possibly work. For the people out there like me who can't find the magazine on the shelves that they want to buy.
I can't see that magazine on the shelves anywhere. Maybe I need to invent it :)
~ ~
Anyways, this is not getting my essay written. What is it about procrastination that makes everything that is not your essay urgent and delightful to involve yourself in right this minute? :)
I thought I would check in here while I'm feeling good, because poor ole Discombobula has been rather a mopey place to be, lately, eh? The niacin I was talking about the other day seems to be helping to stabilise my mood so I'm not all paranoid and uber-almost-schizophrenic/catatonic ~ that and the fact that I haven't eaten any wheat for several days. I find it so difficult to believe that such an innocuous thing as a loaf of wheat bread could cause such havoc. It's hard to believe too because though my body obviously doesn't want to eat it, I'm also craving it. Which is the way of these sorts of things. It's why so many food allergies and intolerances are so hard to pinpoint. And I think that's why I keep going back to it, in disbelief that it could be this ole thing I've been eating all my life that hurls me down a particularly bad mood road. But then, all of the poisons we encounter these days are invisible ones, so it stands to reason.
I have begun routinely scrutinising myself to find out what it is that I'm really desiring to do but am feeling held back from doing in some way. The way I discover what I'm desiring is via how jealous and admiring I feel of others who are doing what it is that in actual fact I want to do. And that, consistently, is growing food, and making art.
And so last week I broke out the paints and started just painting whatever, a vague image I had in my head. And I kept playing around with it until I was happy with it, and lo, a few hours did pass so that when I looked at the clock I was surprised at the time. And I realised that that getting lost in something hasn't happened much lately. Being creative and making stuff, even if it's things you put on your wall but don't post on the internet, let alone give or sell to anyone else, is as empowering and inspiring for me as eating food. It's just that it feels disconnected from me. Sometimes, if I have been away from being creative for a little stretch, the only way I can discern how much I actually really want to come back in is to find my projection. And from there I can see just how much I want to do it. My desire has been extrapolated out onto other people who are able to do this thing that I feel for some reason I'm not able to do. It's a curious way of gauging your desire, that's for sure. But it works.
Sitting down and messing about with colour and shape, I feel that that disassociated part flipping back into my own body. It feels heavenly. It makes me feel happy. I think every single one of us on the planet has our own personal desires, things that take us to this space. But so often we're too busy and we're too tired. Both valid arguments, both of which keep me from doing what I really want to do, which is be creative for big stretches of every single day instead of typing like a drone. But what can you do?
But then there's a grace, that the small start and the tiny step often balloon out into something bigger. The deciding that even though I can't quite see how I'm going to be able to do this every day with time and energy limitations, that I will just do it for half an hour today then. And often that half an hour is what stretches out into losing track of time, and then I'm back on track again.
I have begun gessoing a sheet from my canvas pad and drawn a rough outline on it, and am feeling excited about what it might turn into once I start. The layering and layering, and building on what has gone before, and taking shortcuts because you've fucked up with this blotch over here and so you need to incorporate it when you had no plans of having something like that ... and sometimes those things end up taking it in a direction you never would have gone but which ends up feeling like it was always meant to be, in hindsight. Kind of the way lives are. They look planned at the end, but in the middle, they often feel like chaos.
I have begun routinely scrutinising myself to find out what it is that I'm really desiring to do but am feeling held back from doing in some way. The way I discover what I'm desiring is via how jealous and admiring I feel of others who are doing what it is that in actual fact I want to do. And that, consistently, is growing food, and making art.
And so last week I broke out the paints and started just painting whatever, a vague image I had in my head. And I kept playing around with it until I was happy with it, and lo, a few hours did pass so that when I looked at the clock I was surprised at the time. And I realised that that getting lost in something hasn't happened much lately. Being creative and making stuff, even if it's things you put on your wall but don't post on the internet, let alone give or sell to anyone else, is as empowering and inspiring for me as eating food. It's just that it feels disconnected from me. Sometimes, if I have been away from being creative for a little stretch, the only way I can discern how much I actually really want to come back in is to find my projection. And from there I can see just how much I want to do it. My desire has been extrapolated out onto other people who are able to do this thing that I feel for some reason I'm not able to do. It's a curious way of gauging your desire, that's for sure. But it works.
Sitting down and messing about with colour and shape, I feel that that disassociated part flipping back into my own body. It feels heavenly. It makes me feel happy. I think every single one of us on the planet has our own personal desires, things that take us to this space. But so often we're too busy and we're too tired. Both valid arguments, both of which keep me from doing what I really want to do, which is be creative for big stretches of every single day instead of typing like a drone. But what can you do?
But then there's a grace, that the small start and the tiny step often balloon out into something bigger. The deciding that even though I can't quite see how I'm going to be able to do this every day with time and energy limitations, that I will just do it for half an hour today then. And often that half an hour is what stretches out into losing track of time, and then I'm back on track again.
I have begun gessoing a sheet from my canvas pad and drawn a rough outline on it, and am feeling excited about what it might turn into once I start. The layering and layering, and building on what has gone before, and taking shortcuts because you've fucked up with this blotch over here and so you need to incorporate it when you had no plans of having something like that ... and sometimes those things end up taking it in a direction you never would have gone but which ends up feeling like it was always meant to be, in hindsight. Kind of the way lives are. They look planned at the end, but in the middle, they often feel like chaos.
Someone posted a quote on Facebook the other day which said:
What did YOU do as a child that made the hours pass like minutes? Herein lies the key to your earthly pursuits - Carl Jung
My response was that I read Enid Blyton books. Which made me wonder whether that meant I should pursue reading, writing, or alcoholism.
Alcoholism ~ This has simply not been accomplishable with the state of my liver in recent years. I did have a bourbon and coke the other night, though, I must say. It was nice. That was while I was at the rebadged Oakleigh-Carnegie RSL, morphed into the Caravan Music Club, where Rebecca Barnard and Billy Miller led a group of mostly middle-aged women in a singalong. And yeah, it was a bit daggy, and yeah I had that uncomfortable feeling of not knowing where to look while I was singing, and yeah some of the stuff was excruciatingly awful, but it was fun!
So no, even with my less-toxic liver, I don't think I'm ever going to be an alcoholic, somehow. I grew up with one of those, and it's not a particularly palatable way to spend your time or to own your shit. However, the occasional drink or three would be really nice; the thought of being able to hoe into a bottle of the red that the old man has stored under the house this summer is a nice one. We'll see.
Reading ~ I snuck A.S. Byatt's Possession out of the bookcase the other day. It's been sitting there for months, ever since I spotted it in the Carnegie Salvos store that Mum and I were floffing around in after eating dumplings a few doors down just for the hell of it one day.
(That's two mentions of Carnegie in one post, which is really strange, because I never go to Carnegie. But I digresseth.)
I was sneaking Possession out of the bookcase and away from the prying eyes of the part of myself that gets really shitted off when I procrastinate reading the piled-up anthropology stuff that I have sitting there, and instead climb into bed and read fiction. But she saw, unfortunately, because I have not managed to develop any real dissociative personality disorder traits so far (but you never know what may happen in the future). And anyway, she loves reading fiction as well, and it didn't take long for her to come around and ignore for a while longer the piled-up Anthropology readings I have to do over the next month.
I really am enjoying my Anthropology subjects. It's fascinating stuff, a lot of it, and right up my alley. But sheesh, I'm sick of uni and can't wait till it's finished for the year and I can read the stuff I want to read. And write the stuff I want to write.
Writing ~ I really feel like I am missing a limb when I don't get to write non-academic stuff. I have been procrastinating working this afternoon, and instead writing this post, and turning my mind toward what I would like to have a stab at for the Australia Nature Writing Prize. I really have no idea. And of course, every time I turn my mind to writing something new, I always feel like I will never be able to come up with anything at all. Indeed, in the past, that feeling has been enough in and of itself to flabbergast me into going and watching something stupid on the telly. But these days, I'm much more okay with that empty space that opens up whenever I begin to ponder a new writing subject. It doesn't feel like a void that I could fall into, the way it used to. It feels an expectant pulse of possibility instead. Even though I have not a clue about whether I'm going to be able to come up with anything.
But still, there's been enough times now where I have experienced for myself nature's abhorrence of a vacuum to realise that making space might feel a little uncomfortable, but it's making magic, and that out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing is a field. It's a quantum field. And Rumi is there, along with everything else. Including a million and one possibilities, several of which will begin suggesting themselves to me over the next days and weeks, if I remember to keep an eye out for the times when they pop up, seemingly out of nowhere.
What did YOU do as a child that made the hours pass like minutes? Herein lies the key to your earthly pursuits - Carl Jung
My response was that I read Enid Blyton books. Which made me wonder whether that meant I should pursue reading, writing, or alcoholism.
Alcoholism ~ This has simply not been accomplishable with the state of my liver in recent years. I did have a bourbon and coke the other night, though, I must say. It was nice. That was while I was at the rebadged Oakleigh-Carnegie RSL, morphed into the Caravan Music Club, where Rebecca Barnard and Billy Miller led a group of mostly middle-aged women in a singalong. And yeah, it was a bit daggy, and yeah I had that uncomfortable feeling of not knowing where to look while I was singing, and yeah some of the stuff was excruciatingly awful, but it was fun!
So no, even with my less-toxic liver, I don't think I'm ever going to be an alcoholic, somehow. I grew up with one of those, and it's not a particularly palatable way to spend your time or to own your shit. However, the occasional drink or three would be really nice; the thought of being able to hoe into a bottle of the red that the old man has stored under the house this summer is a nice one. We'll see.
Reading ~ I snuck A.S. Byatt's Possession out of the bookcase the other day. It's been sitting there for months, ever since I spotted it in the Carnegie Salvos store that Mum and I were floffing around in after eating dumplings a few doors down just for the hell of it one day.
(That's two mentions of Carnegie in one post, which is really strange, because I never go to Carnegie. But I digresseth.)
I was sneaking Possession out of the bookcase and away from the prying eyes of the part of myself that gets really shitted off when I procrastinate reading the piled-up anthropology stuff that I have sitting there, and instead climb into bed and read fiction. But she saw, unfortunately, because I have not managed to develop any real dissociative personality disorder traits so far (but you never know what may happen in the future). And anyway, she loves reading fiction as well, and it didn't take long for her to come around and ignore for a while longer the piled-up Anthropology readings I have to do over the next month.
I really am enjoying my Anthropology subjects. It's fascinating stuff, a lot of it, and right up my alley. But sheesh, I'm sick of uni and can't wait till it's finished for the year and I can read the stuff I want to read. And write the stuff I want to write.
Writing ~ I really feel like I am missing a limb when I don't get to write non-academic stuff. I have been procrastinating working this afternoon, and instead writing this post, and turning my mind toward what I would like to have a stab at for the Australia Nature Writing Prize. I really have no idea. And of course, every time I turn my mind to writing something new, I always feel like I will never be able to come up with anything at all. Indeed, in the past, that feeling has been enough in and of itself to flabbergast me into going and watching something stupid on the telly. But these days, I'm much more okay with that empty space that opens up whenever I begin to ponder a new writing subject. It doesn't feel like a void that I could fall into, the way it used to. It feels an expectant pulse of possibility instead. Even though I have not a clue about whether I'm going to be able to come up with anything.
But still, there's been enough times now where I have experienced for myself nature's abhorrence of a vacuum to realise that making space might feel a little uncomfortable, but it's making magic, and that out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing is a field. It's a quantum field. And Rumi is there, along with everything else. Including a million and one possibilities, several of which will begin suggesting themselves to me over the next days and weeks, if I remember to keep an eye out for the times when they pop up, seemingly out of nowhere.
A Whiney Post About Feeling Crap ... Nothing New Here to See :)
13 commentsThursday, 6 September 2012
Sometimes, outside validation is a lovely thing. It helps you articulate things that have bothered you for decades but you haven't wanted to put words to it in case you get locked up. In the case of pyroluria, having the symptom of "severe inner tension" listed right there on the page is a real validation.
Sometimes I feel like two people. I've grown so used to having this "severe inner tension" that I can go about my day doing stuff and all the while it's simmering away there. But it's not easily expressed. For someone who is happy to talk to you about the state of her poo*, when it comes to talking about this I get strangely reticent.
Except, of course, when I'm talking about it on my blog. Which is sorta weird, right? I mean, so many people think blogging is a pointless waste of time. Indeed, out of all of the people I know, at most only two of them reads my blog regularly. I don't bring that up because I'm feeling snarky that people aren't reading my blog; I bring it up because (a) if I have something published, a whole lot of people who don't read my blog will go and read that, because it's proper writing; and (b) I am way more able to articulate myself these days in written form. It may seem strange to some who presume that speaking is more real than writing. I am less able nowadays to form what I want to say into coherent sentences. I am so much more myself on the page than I am in real life. Paradox.
I'm tired today, and fed up. I'm fed up with the fact that I can't seem to sort out my B6 levels. I've tried small doses, large doses, varying degrees of standard B6 and P5P, and I just can't work out what to do. I can't work out whether I am not absorbing it properly, or if I am absorbing it and I'm maybe taking too much, and that is contributing to feeling severely innerly tense, or whether I would be feeling like that anyway. The problem with jumping off too quickly when taking new things is that sometimes, just because you are feeling worse doesn't mean you're not on the right track. Sometimes there is what's called the Herxheimer effect, where you feel worse before you feel better because that's what needs to happen in your body as it stabilises itself. But sheesh, I don't fucking know.
I'm fed up with the whole box and dice. I'm fed up with how, when I am feeling bad in my body (which always passes after a time), I manage to make the whole thing totally worse by the "suffering" thoughts that flood in. The victimised thoughts. Thoughts like, "It shouldn't be like this," or like "I just want to be normal".
(Which isn't, by the way, true. Normal people seem awfully boring and rather resemble sheep in their inclination to follow along after everybody else and watch the news on Channel 9 without feeling unbearable).
But normal people get things done. And I really would like to get things done.
Like the bathroom, for instance. That baby hasn't been cleaned for weeks. That's not asking too much, is it?
Okay. Whine over now. Because comparison is the thief of joy, right? And comparing myself to other people does make me feel worse. Even when that comparison is with a different self than the one I currently inhabit.
~ ~ ~
* Some people are much more tidy on their blogs, and they only publish posts that are about something, rather than complaining about their health issues. Some people resist the urge to write these sorts of posts because they are seen as self-indulgent. They would, for example, skip writing this post and instead choose to write about the singalong me, Andrea and my mum went to last night where we sat with a whole lot of middle-aged women singing songs with Rebecca Barnard and Billy Miller and which was really FUN!
But then I'm also mindful of the amount of people that have begun surfing into my blog with pyroluria tags. I want to write about my experience if it helps someone else who is struggling with this maybe feel not so alone. And anyway, I don't know why I feel like I have to apologise for writing things that might be seen as self-indulgent. After all, if these posts bore you, I'm sure you wouldn't have got this far down before skipping to the next post in your feed reader. Why do I feel like I have to apologise for writing about feeling crap? Because I tell you what, I feel like crap. It's interspersed far more these days with feeling much more normal again, but I just feel crap. And I'm fucking well sick of it.
I guess I feel apologetic about writing about my health stuff because it's been going on for soooooooooo loooooooong. And people's eyes glaze over when you talk about your health issues. Because it's really boring.
But anyway, speaking of poo, I do intend to write about the colonic session I had last Friday. Because I know you want to hear about it. And I feel it's my duty to keep you informed :)
Sometimes I feel like two people. I've grown so used to having this "severe inner tension" that I can go about my day doing stuff and all the while it's simmering away there. But it's not easily expressed. For someone who is happy to talk to you about the state of her poo*, when it comes to talking about this I get strangely reticent.
Except, of course, when I'm talking about it on my blog. Which is sorta weird, right? I mean, so many people think blogging is a pointless waste of time. Indeed, out of all of the people I know, at most only two of them reads my blog regularly. I don't bring that up because I'm feeling snarky that people aren't reading my blog; I bring it up because (a) if I have something published, a whole lot of people who don't read my blog will go and read that, because it's proper writing; and (b) I am way more able to articulate myself these days in written form. It may seem strange to some who presume that speaking is more real than writing. I am less able nowadays to form what I want to say into coherent sentences. I am so much more myself on the page than I am in real life. Paradox.
I'm tired today, and fed up. I'm fed up with the fact that I can't seem to sort out my B6 levels. I've tried small doses, large doses, varying degrees of standard B6 and P5P, and I just can't work out what to do. I can't work out whether I am not absorbing it properly, or if I am absorbing it and I'm maybe taking too much, and that is contributing to feeling severely innerly tense, or whether I would be feeling like that anyway. The problem with jumping off too quickly when taking new things is that sometimes, just because you are feeling worse doesn't mean you're not on the right track. Sometimes there is what's called the Herxheimer effect, where you feel worse before you feel better because that's what needs to happen in your body as it stabilises itself. But sheesh, I don't fucking know.
I'm fed up with the whole box and dice. I'm fed up with how, when I am feeling bad in my body (which always passes after a time), I manage to make the whole thing totally worse by the "suffering" thoughts that flood in. The victimised thoughts. Thoughts like, "It shouldn't be like this," or like "I just want to be normal".
(Which isn't, by the way, true. Normal people seem awfully boring and rather resemble sheep in their inclination to follow along after everybody else and watch the news on Channel 9 without feeling unbearable).
But normal people get things done. And I really would like to get things done.
Like the bathroom, for instance. That baby hasn't been cleaned for weeks. That's not asking too much, is it?
Okay. Whine over now. Because comparison is the thief of joy, right? And comparing myself to other people does make me feel worse. Even when that comparison is with a different self than the one I currently inhabit.
~ ~ ~
* Some people are much more tidy on their blogs, and they only publish posts that are about something, rather than complaining about their health issues. Some people resist the urge to write these sorts of posts because they are seen as self-indulgent. They would, for example, skip writing this post and instead choose to write about the singalong me, Andrea and my mum went to last night where we sat with a whole lot of middle-aged women singing songs with Rebecca Barnard and Billy Miller and which was really FUN!
But then I'm also mindful of the amount of people that have begun surfing into my blog with pyroluria tags. I want to write about my experience if it helps someone else who is struggling with this maybe feel not so alone. And anyway, I don't know why I feel like I have to apologise for writing things that might be seen as self-indulgent. After all, if these posts bore you, I'm sure you wouldn't have got this far down before skipping to the next post in your feed reader. Why do I feel like I have to apologise for writing about feeling crap? Because I tell you what, I feel like crap. It's interspersed far more these days with feeling much more normal again, but I just feel crap. And I'm fucking well sick of it.
I guess I feel apologetic about writing about my health stuff because it's been going on for soooooooooo loooooooong. And people's eyes glaze over when you talk about your health issues. Because it's really boring.
But anyway, speaking of poo, I do intend to write about the colonic session I had last Friday. Because I know you want to hear about it. And I feel it's my duty to keep you informed :)
Out of the unchill, what was a chasm becomes, once again,
a step.
What was something someone else did becomes, once again,
something I can do
(I thirst).
Somewhere, beyond the range of my ears, there is
an audible click as I snap back in to Myself.
The clay has been in the corner for so long I can't count the months.
I couldn't reach it, though it's been right there. Suddenly there is
a path ~ again ~ where there wasn't one before. It is wise to
keep an eye out for disappeared paths.
They appear and disappear in accordance with how close I am to the
vat of congealed fear and how easily I forget that I can look in without falling.
In the dark I have faith and forget that the paths are there at all, and that I will return.
Knowing how little I see is beautiful, smells like chocolate, feels like fucking, like
rolling around in the dark dank of the forest floor, and I am free
~ free
free ~
~ free ~
and once again I am released from the prison nobody else has
sentenced me to but myself and the body I must stuff myself down into,
as if it was ever big enough for the likes of Me.
I measure the roadblocks that sometimes pop up in front of my desires by how
jealous I feel of other people who are doing the thing that I want to do myself but can't get to.
Though one part of me is numb to what I want to do most, another part of me
unhampered is thirsty, delirious, at the return to play,
at the coming of the spring.
a step.
What was something someone else did becomes, once again,
something I can do
(I thirst).
Somewhere, beyond the range of my ears, there is
an audible click as I snap back in to Myself.
The clay has been in the corner for so long I can't count the months.
I couldn't reach it, though it's been right there. Suddenly there is
a path ~ again ~ where there wasn't one before. It is wise to
keep an eye out for disappeared paths.
They appear and disappear in accordance with how close I am to the
vat of congealed fear and how easily I forget that I can look in without falling.
In the dark I have faith and forget that the paths are there at all, and that I will return.
Knowing how little I see is beautiful, smells like chocolate, feels like fucking, like
rolling around in the dark dank of the forest floor, and I am free
~ free
free ~
~ free ~
and once again I am released from the prison nobody else has
sentenced me to but myself and the body I must stuff myself down into,
as if it was ever big enough for the likes of Me.
I measure the roadblocks that sometimes pop up in front of my desires by how
jealous I feel of other people who are doing the thing that I want to do myself but can't get to.
Though one part of me is numb to what I want to do most, another part of me
unhampered is thirsty, delirious, at the return to play,
at the coming of the spring.
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