Notes on The Art of Self Defence

* Apologies to anyone who may have been offended by that last post. Uncle Zoo is just very tired, and burnt out by the scene/community, and needs more tea and space and less folk to fix and manage.

* Please do not fret-- I am okay really. Monster is greater than ever (awww), Midsomer Murders is on tonight, the cat is purring, I'm about to have yummo vegan dinner with Monster and a mate, my thesis-writing has made grand leaps in the last week and I have a VERY hot new inkjob to perv at. Life is, overall, very very good. I just need to keep myself safe for a while, and that means devoting energy to things that bring me joy and hope and make me laugh and remind me that the world is a grand place. At this point of writing and thinking I just don't have the brainspace or time to deal with much else.

The Art of Self-Defence

The city is a dangerous place.

Went away with the Monster and some mates for the weekend, a getaway gift that was too good to refuse. Gorgeous big farmhouse, alpacas, vegie patches, wombats, rabbits, a huge bath, comfy lounges, grand beds, fireplace and PEACE AND QUIET. It was a perfect place to write, to read, to just BE and think and... I didn't want to leave, just get broadband set up and my books and papers sent there and stay for the next six months.

Back to the ghetto now. And I am panicked already-- its too noisy, too crazy, too many people wanting something from me, too much stimulation, too many people clogging up the footpaths, too many trains going past my window. I feel totally drained by this place and this community sometimes, and despite my very conscious efforts before I left here not to surround myself with mad (in a bad, messy, manipulative, destructive,not-playing-well-with-others way) folks, it seems that yet again I am collecting broken things and wondering why I am stressed every time my phone makes a text beep at me, why I jump every time the land line rings or Monster tells me she has spoken to one of our friends. Its almost always something very dramatic, and predominately negative, or so it seems, and I am frigging exhausted by it, by them, by the social worker energy I feel I am expected to maintain all of the time.

Yes, I am more than aware that I am in many ways a broken thing too. I freak and I panic and get into quite mad cycles of thinking and rant and rave. Pot, kettle, black.

All the same, this is not a healthy place for me to be in. Compassionate burnout, an attack of selfishness, whatever you call, I can't do much more of this at the moment.

So will be pulling back on more social things than I had intended-- going to far less events, having many less coffee dates with the energy vampires, staying off chat from time to time, going offline entirely for days, hibernating, doing what I need to do (writing, creating, sleeping, reading, cuddling).

Damn, I hope it works.

Speaking in Tongues

'Our tongues, their tongues, tongueness. Tongue twisting, tongue lashing, tongue tying; on the tip of the tongue. Tongue wagging, tongue-and-groove, tongue-in-cheek, tongues of land; speaking in tongues. Sharp tongues, shoe tongues, harness tongues, bell tongues. Gift of tongues. Bite one's tongue, find one's tongue, hold one's tongue, lose one's tongue. Give tongue.'

-- Kathy Neustadt, 'The Folkloristics of Licking'

Ghosts

20 years I spent a semester in an adolescent psych facility (basically because I wouldn't go to school, and was pretty adament and stroppy about it). It was a strange time, sad but not entirely so, and it taught me a lot in ways that weren't in the program (smoking and cutting, for a start, but also more positive things). There were magnolia trees and an old boat shed and huge gardens and much magic in the making somehow-- the buildings were formerly a convalescent hospital. I wrote poetry there, I think, worked on my moontan, and read The Bell Jar. I met my first boyfriend there. He used to wear eyeliner, listen to Nick Cave and steal his mother's brain meds.

Last night we went to visit a young friend who is in the mental health facility right next door to the one I was in. Different institution as such, but was still a little odd to be driving down that road again. It has been a long time, and I wonder where that girl ever got to...

'I used to sometimes try to catch her, but never even caught her name'

Where's Monster?

'Where is Monster?'

Obviously, if I am out and about on my own, or with somebody who is not Monster, then the world has gone mad and its time to call the authorities.

'Where is Monster?' is a reasonable question if I am out clubbing solo, at a party without my monstrous companion, or am going it alone some place we would usually inhabit together.

'Where is Monster?', in a tone suggesting mild curiosity as to what the Monster is up to, cool. I like that you like the Monster, and that you care about her whereabouts and welfare. She probably likes you too.

But 'WHERE IS MONSTER?' in that sort of bewildered, demanding, interrogating manner, said when I should have the audacity to wander along King St on my way home from gallivanting on my lonesome, say from work or being inked or doing some shopping or having coffee with a mate, well...

Monster could be at home working, she could be at her art class, she could be helping a friend with some handywork, she could be doing anything really! And, while its nice that you care, please note that we are INDIVIDUAL monsters, not some sort of monsterunit that cannot move about the ghetto without our other half.

Thanks.