I think I am writing here to intercede silence. Maybe, to register tonight as a special occasion for reviewing my past. Bonesmanbible can be read as a discursive field, an archaelogical layer, an episteme. But reading what I wrote some years ago has only demonstrated the failure of memory. Yet, this sort of historiographical understanding tends to preclude some of the more poignant qualities. I wasn't necessarily trying to negotiate a context for my existence, I was just more or less happy to go along with what was presented to me. I don't think I wrote a lot about love, it's bad manners. But it certainly surfaced in many of the entries. In many instances, I would've deride those whose excessiveness generate only maudlin and dramatise substances - words that always fail to take love seriously. But I wrote many of these as well, in highsight. Too much is noted. Too many travails.
Hello, I'm back from Sydney. Things will change here. Bonesmanbible has serve me well for the past 2 years and more. It's time to move on. This journal has becoming too personal for my liking now and I hope that future opportunities to blog will take on a different direction. Mainly something less introspective, narcissistic and self-indulgent.
The next update will be a link to my new livejournal, while I figure out how to archive the old materials for my future amusement and reminiscence. Thank you for reading.
I don't believe I will ever learn how to write journals anymore. They seem so irrelevant to my life, that has no permanency. What I etch in these pages only serve to highlight certain aspects I find amusing and they do not offer any glimpse into something that's never there to begin with. The Melbourne climate took a turn this week, the constant drizzle does not provide much comfort for any form of walking. It is the warmth that I miss in this capriocious weather. Like this pattern of the clouds, and rain and season that I grew up listening to on the dinner table, I don't feel I ever recognise myself anymore. Perhaps I only hope for some form of kindness that will light my way - something perhaps found in every individual that can be polished by art, culture, religion. I am glad that Jvstine and Chs both agree why Hannibal killed and those victims do deserve death like how God will just smite all of us insignificant morons out of sight. Basically when an angel of death is unleashed there is no second chance. It is brutal.
The Impressionist exhibition down at the gallery was quite a satisfactory one, especially when one is humbled by such beautiful art forms. The evening was spent entertaining very amusing English things, such as fish and chips with tea and a BBC video 'Enchanted April' featuring a frumpy old woman with a pouting lips declaring everything to be 'highly improper' at every occasion that she could summon so. We camped out the night over at Jvstine and spent the next day window shopping for antiques along High St. Armadale. The evening so far has been disappointing. The perfunctory of meeting up with a friend turned out to be such a bore and offence to anyone with proper sensibilities. The reason why I can't stand hippies so much is because they never learn how to respect and expect the love-all rainbow dotted pink shaped heart to travel to the nether-regions of the world. How is that possible. How highly disrespectful to have your leg on the chair when one is eating one's dinner in a restaurant. Not to mention that Westeners should never dabble with the sitar, it makes the whole dim-lit bohemian atmosphere of a vegetarian restaurant highly drabby. And how dare my company even provoke that I'm too dependent on my parents for allowing them to pay for my education and living expenses over seas. The ignorance of Australians are quite appalling. As Jvstine happily quotes, 'the white trash' of society leaves so little to be desired of the city. The painful expense of society is that when you're there, you can't go any further, but one must always hope for the better. As much as I enjoy Melbourne, I find it disturbing how left wing the city can be. I don't believe I'm ever an idealogue, nor am I conservative, but I do sincerely hope that Western society should never abandon the archetypal role of a gentleman.
It's disturbing how we come to forget these virtues of kindness, generosity, humility that is exemplified in the gentlemen, rather these so called 'anarchist' and 'rebels' attempt to paint an image of the snooty old man who is filled to the brim with arrogance. Well, so far I've never met the latter. They must be abound but those that I have considered gentlemanly figures are all wonderful people. Rather I find it difficult to buy into the books of socialism when they command such pretentiousness that their attempt at 'converting' the masses makes me very sick at times. I basically ask for courtesy and respect, and an opportunity to get to know each other, closing this door with attitude or behaviour means closing the door to possible friendship. I'm just waiting to leave Melbourne now, it is quite a squalid place and I don't seem to be taking the city in very well. The drinks and fun and sex is all good as temporal enjoyment but I do yearn for a more peaceful atmosphere. I read about the desert fathers and their little cells in natural caves. At night I dream of these strange visitations. I need to cleanse myself once more from all these putrid accumulations. In dream or wake, they say 'the sabbat is the true paradise'.
My random walk in the city today ended with a solitary outing in a movie theatre. It was all very unexpected, seeing how the tram takes me to where I please, I eventually hop on one on Collins St, landing me right outside Sofitel. The shows advertised on the billboards did not interest me, but I went in anyway, to find the Barbarian Invasions starting in approximately 10 seconds.The eftpos was kind this afternoon, and processing my transaction quick enough to allow me a three second leeway to settle comfortably in a relatively empty cinema (and that's how I like my cinema) before the movie started. This is one of the most intelligent movies I've seen in quite a while, it's not so much of its critic on leftist idealogy or the invasion of more barbaric capitalistic ideal into this cosy canadian community, it certainly is more than the cancerous streaks that we all have to endure, and it does not stop at how terrible system such as medicare can be, and truly I always detest medicare, they are unreliable. I like the pacing of the movie and what it represents to me as our constant struggle for meaning. Perhaps this is a justifiable sequel for the entire weekend of Silence of the Lambs and Hannibal. But rightly so, it strikes a chord in my heart, for the very reason that my aimless walk in the city is also an attempt to find some meaning. Some analogy, something comfortable other than the dreadful silence and the stifling presence of another person. There is however something celebratory in the plot that I miss, maybe I miss the whole point of it to begin with, perhaps there is nothing except all the ironies of life that shows how funny it is. Or maybe I love the conversations, quick, sharp, randy. And hope for something similar.
I have Morisot's The Young Girl by the Window staring at me as I type, pondering the possible outcome of yet another few weeks of possible nothing-ness, yet I always do insist I get something out of the holiday. I've much desire to pick up painting again. This time I'm inspired by some of the Japanese mandaras that I have the good fortune to study during this semester, particularly those of the two world vareity and the Takao. Although in all honesty, the main inspiration (as much as I hate to admit it, since the artist is one of the big honchos, I think, from the macdonalised Caliphate OTO in Australia) is from Barry Hale. What's the grudge? Other than the fact that they charge too much and I'm semi-inducted into SOTO? Nothing in particular.
I did enjoy my brief association with them and the people are wonderful but I'm looking for something else all together, which might just sum up one of my holiday plan, a trip to the Norman Lindsay gallery as well as experimenting with trance art ala Rosaleen Norton. My academic interest might bring it further, but we'll see. It all sounds very promising.
Sigh, I hate my assignments. It seems interminable to just find the right mood in order to finish them up. And when I think of all the happy days I spent on nothing-in-particular - one such pixie creature as I find delight hunting curios all by myself in odd corners of the city or Armadale - I might've realised that I'm not an academic at all but a dilettante and so arriving at such frustrating conclusion I now require a patron of the arts. Because that is how we live life, all the petty little leisure we derive from the pockets of daddies. I'm looking forward to acquire a drinking horn, something that summon the hounds or large enough to pass the mead in. And then I'll grow a beard.
How have I been? The problem with seven days a week is that one messes up the six of it and get all anxious on the seventh. And I don't seem to find enough time to actually sit down in front of the PC anymore. Or if I do, then I could never muster the enthusiasm to write emails.
In fact I like my nights when I stare out to the deep dark chain of blinking lights of the distant suburb, or that lonely enshrined dome of the museum. The house is not in terribly well-kept condition, only because there is such heavy-hearted-ness dwelling within its walls. I wish I know what to do when it comes to these things.
I spent quite a lot of time with Chs. We do quite almost everything. Wineyards, dinner, reading poetry, and tonight there is live drawing in South Melbourne. Such neglect especially semester is coming to an end. I have yet to finalise most of my work, so it is perhaps best to sit down one day, lock myself up and start working on it. It all should be quite urgent by next week.