Loosing My Religion

And my patience with the ongoing lose/loose confusion which seems to have affected almost everyone who is allowed to put finger to keyboard these days.

PLEASE NOTE

If you repeatedly misplace, cannot find, do not know the whereabouts of your car keys/underwear/mind then you do not write:

'Damn, I am always LOOSING my _____'

Unless you are to deliberately set these items free, as in:

'I cut my _____ LOOSE from the shackles of being possessed by a troll with an irresistable urge to use two Os where one O will do.'

Otherwise, you LOSE things. You are forever LOSING your ____. And if you are forever losing your underwear, you might just be loose but that is another matter...

Going Underground

'By dreaming and idleness and then by intense self-discipline does the artist live...'

--Winterson, Art Objects

And so to my thesis, my current and largest art project.

I have dreamed it, I have played with, I have slept on it, I have imagined it, I have read about it and talked about it and pondered it and now... The time has come to WRITE it. Properly. No holds barred.

Intense Self Discipline now. The winter has come and almost gone again, and the writing is starting to take shape. Maybe 40-50 000 words or so (out of 85-100 000) written up, more in draft form. Time to strap myself into the hard work of edit, rewrite, edit, rewrite, add, subtract, repeat. To this end, a note to my crew:

Please do not ask me to do any more shows until I have submitted the beast. If I get the urge to strut my stuff I'll contact you. At the moment I need to reserve most if not all of my creative juices for writing.

Please don't be offended if I don't make it out to a lot of events, or don't stay hugely long when I do. I still need the odd spot of trashiness and debauchery, but I also need plenty of shuteye and large chunks of time when I don't leave the house at all (except maybe for a wake-up walk or to fetch beer).

Visitors are often welcome though, so if you are in the hood and fancy a cuppa in our backyard then feel free to text. Just don't be offended if I say no, or postpone, or start getting twitchy when you're there and boot you out after an hour.

Creative fits are not predictable at all for me. My whims are erratic, and I my hours rather eccentric, and so I don't quite know what I will do next really. I will endeavour to behave responsibly, and not comitting to very much is the best way to avoid disappointing folk.

Still, deadline is February or thereabouts. Six months of Intense Self Discipline, lower levels of social activity, more chocolate, less beer and increased levels of incoherence adn delirium and it should be done.

Love you all! Wish me luck.

I Wanna Be Adorned

This is part of my latest inkjob, which starts getting coloured next Wednesday. Best mate of mine asked if the background was going to be coloured too, or whether you would be able to see my flesh behind the image. It had never occurred to me to colour the background, and the idea of it really irked me for reasons I couldn't quite put my finger on.

Then I realised that it was because I like the option to be unclothed sometimes. I am heavily adorned-- scars, tatts, piercings-- but to me they are jewellery more than clothing. An adornment rather than a covering.

My overall vision, how I imagine I would like my body to look, indeed, how it already looks I suppose, is like an old building (a temple and all *rolls eyes*). Bits of it damaged, cracked or missing altogether, worn smooth by the elements, dust collecting in the corners and crevices, random graffitti in places, the odd sparkle of stained glass and gilt...

The old grey mare ain't what she used to be...

(Ain't a 'she' no more, for a start)

Lately it has become increasingly apparent that the Zoo is getting on a bit. I can't drink ten beers in an evening and then make it to work in the morning. In fact, I would be lucky to even drink the ten beers. I can't really party three nights in a row, period. Sometimes I stuggle to do three or four different activities in a day (work, write, coffee date, art, play, whatever). The idea of afterparties exhausts me, and my perfect recovery is being in bed by dawn with a crumpet and a cup of tea. I don't do any chemicals anymore really-- never could really handle them but now they just floor me. Often I don't take as much pain as I did in days past, can't cop fifty needles or an hour-long beating with nearly the same ease as when I was first a painslut.

Sometimes, shock horror, even warmup (and in dire moments, foreplay) seem necesssary.

Much of this, I know, is to do directly with the thesis beast. It sucks a lot of energy, even when I am not working on it directly. If I write for more than four or five hours a day I pretty much don't want to do anything else afterwards. And the closer I get to the end, the more intense it becomes and the less energy I have for other things: making shows, socialising, dancing etc. The next six months is going to be HARD.

Much of this is also to do with my chronic sinus pain (8 or nine years now I reckon). This had been tenporiarily relieved by magical chinese herbs, but my therapist has left and I need to source another who can do the same thing for me cos nothing anyone else has given me has worked. Sneezing and wheezing for the first two hours of most days, and often an hour or more at the end, is quite debilitating. It makes one tired, and nauseasted, and eventually very flat and sad. Not to mention the pain, the day in day out pressure in one's face and gums and eyes and head. (Am trying to get details of an amazing chinese med dude in Marrickville pronto so I can get this all sorted. Its just foul, and has a massive impact on my everyday life.)

And some of it is just to do with getting old. Physically old, but also not WANTING to do so much anymore. Or wanting to do different, often quieter, things. Quality ovedrriding quantity. Increasing discernment, and increasing realisation that its only worth surrounding yourself with roses if you take time to smell them.

And I am comfortable with most of the shifts that are taking place in my head and even my body, I feel wiser and more happy with my place in the world and with myself generally and its all good. Mostly. Sometimes though, just sometimes, I see a young'un up on the rack with that thirst and that hunger for pain and sensation and everything and for a moment I miss it...

It's not gone entirely, of course. In fact I don't think that it has gone at all. I still want to learn things and experience as much as I can and travel and meet new people and throw myself into challenging situations and expand my boundaries and question everything but somehow the energy has shifted.

I'm not who or how I used to be, but most probably that is the point.

Academia Again

Something I have long suspected:

'Academics, who are sometimes critics, and often reviewers, are notorious fence-sitters, afraid of ridicule, afraid of risk, the risk and ridicule that the true writer faces every time she publishes. Unlike writers, academics draw a salary and this will be taken away from them if they back a wild horse. They do not back wild horses; they record the virtues of nags long past their prime.'

-- Winterson, Art Objects (191)

Chintz dipped in mud...

'I do not think of art as Consolation. I think of it as Creation. I think of it as an energetic space that begets energetic space. Works of art do not reproduce themselves, they re-create themselves and have at the same time sufficient permanent power to create room for us, the dispossessed. In other words, art makes it possible to live in energetic space.
When I talk about creating emotion around the forbidden, I do not mean disgust around the well known. Forget the lowlife, tourist, squeaky clean middle-class bad boys who call their sex-depravity in blunt prose, fine writing. Forget the copycat girls who do not know then end of a dildo from a vacuum rod. They are only chintz dipped in mud and we are after real material. What is forbidden is scarier, sexier, unnightmared by the white-collar cataloguers of crap.'

--Winterson, Art Objects (114)

Odd Jobs

Somehow started thinking of all the things I had done for money in the past 20 or so years, and came up with this (probably partial) list:

Bakery assistant. Bank teller. Bum model for a girly magazine. Manager of a second-hand record store. IT geek at the Uni computer labs. Transcribing dialogue for a voice-recognition software company. Selling ugly, dodgy 'art'works of the Harbour at Circular Quay according to a pre-written script that involved the word 'pointellism' one to many times. Customer service at a home loans company. Market research cold calling (the pork surveys were always a favourite). Face to face market research interviewing. Coding surveys. Binding books at the Uni publishing service. Selling books at the Uni copy centre. Credit card call centre. Performance art.

Actually, most of it was performance art.

Art, And Lies

The other week Necortitties and I gave a lecture on queer art at the National Art School (for a predominately non-queer audience). It was a JOY to research and write up and discuss, and made me realise that maybe, just maybe, I can enjoy teaching somehow. And made me wonder (again) if perhaps I have been barking up the wrong tree, looking in the wrong places, in respects to my own academic work-- its the ART stuff that really grabs me, that makes me wet, that hardens me nipples and gets me wanting to read theory and to create beautiful objects. Writing as an artform, practice-led research, the materiality of words, art and alchemy, art and life, the texture of text...

But I digress. What I wanted to discuss here was some of the comments we got after the paper. We had given examples of some of our own performance pieces, mostly blood work, and naturally people were curious and so question time largely focussed on our process, the meaning of the pieces, the effect that making this work had on us and such. We answered as honestly as we could, and people seemed quite blown away at our frankness. I was surprised that they were surprised.

And this got me thinking about how being openly and brazenly queer contributed to my own answers. About how commonplace it has become for me to be fielding questions about how I live my life, my relationships, my kinks and such, about how the support of my community has given my the space and the strength in which to act upon and articulate my desires. About how I wasn't ashamed of anything I get up to, or who I get up to it with, and about how damned lucky I am to be where I am in the world. Blessed.

Monster Dedication

Sometimes you make me feel like I'm living at the edge of the world,
'Its just the way I smile,' you said...

-- The Cure, 'Plainsong'