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Hair

My obsession with my hair is ridiculous and nonsensical, and definitely irrational. Just over one month ago I was proudly swaying my mane of long brown hair (with purple streak underneath on the left hand side- I loved it so much), brushing it, blowdrying it, making it sit right. It had taken me over two years to get it to that length. However, and as is usual, I was always thinking that I should change it. I had a conversation with my friend Helen one fateful night about my hair crisis (never a fickle word was spoken) and later that night I went home and did something completely disgraceful - I cut a fringe, but of course stuffed it up. Regardless I forged ahead and over many revisions, (apparently these do not work as well on hair as they do with words on paper) I had mutilated my hair. So I went to the hairdresser and got it all cut off. However, I wonder if the very first snip I took of my hair was actually the first step on the path of having a nude head, but not wanting to recognise the desire. I love having short hair, but it always makes me feel tired...so tired...looking at it makes me weary of time passing.

NOTE: apparently I was too busy in July to post.

NOTE 2: This morning I have been doing a little research on Masters by research and scholarships etc - as you do when trying not to learn about DIRKS (http://www.records.nsw.gov.au/recordkeeping/sequential_analysis_1897.asp)
and anyway I have realised that I will have to study for another full year because I do not have enough of the foundation units in order to do the research units. This means that I will probably not stay in WA and will have to return to Melbourne sometime in 2007, possibly early - as in March. No one knows about this yet and I should really speak to the course co-ordinator about it before I say anything, but all of a sudden today, right now, remembering the "you are shit" story et al, waiting for a response to an email that might quite possibly make my friend Flynn irrevocably angry with me, I feel trapped and a little panicky.

Process

Yesterday was a great day and although I did not write anything about it at the time, the rememberence of it will be good. Yesterday I realised with certain fact and complete knowing that we can never make the same mistakes. Moment to moment I am different, because I have changed. I can never be that what I was previously, I can only be constantly evolving. If I repeat something that I have done previously, an action, a decision, this performance is part of the building of experiences within living. By nature of the fact that I am constantly in a state of flux means that every previous decision or action has generated reaction. When I repeat something (make the same mistake) it is done with a complete knowing and understanding, either consciously or subconsciously of the implications of that decision or action. The unconscious craving for a the repeat of a sensation, whether it be a positive or a negatie affirmation, is always learned. So we dont always make the same mistakes and we also always learn from our mistakes.

Today is a different day and for some reason I have been thinking about a particular friend over the last few days. She is a puzzle this friend. She says puzzling things. Today, just now, a thought struck me as I was reading about sequential analysis of business records in the DIRKS manual (egads!) that everything I had assumed about our friendship may possibly have been made in error. Fights we had had previously (there is something interesting as I rarely fight with friends), as well as reactions to situations. Now I must re-write our history in my head. Finally, it is interesting when this situation occurs, because how does the re-write affect the present? I will never know if I am right about the history revision, because too much time has passed for me to ask. How do you ask a question like that anyway?
Back to DIRKS.

Because I cannot help myself...

More writing that I have found...damn I should keep all these habits under control.

Regardless of how many lovers or time spent with lovers, I always feel like it is the first time. That feeling of shock when someone does not just part your legs, but goes deep inside you, has never left me. I crave it and I push my hips into it, but that moment of tension never fails to disgust me. This is the legacy of my virginity.

Words

I enjoy finding something you have written a while after it has been committed to the page. At the same time I find the words disconcerting and awkward, as if they hold far more meanings than I can remember. I never know what to do with them. Anyway, I woke up this morning and read that the socceroos are finished in their WC campaign and I reckon they did a good job. AS much as I deplore this Government's attitude to sport and the arts in this country, it upsets me that I take it out on my love of sport.
Anyway, the temporarily lost beginning of a story:

There is this odd contradiction of going bush. You leave the city to get away from it all, but end up in a place where monsters lurk and the loudest, most terrifying sounds imaginable cause physical pain. I never thought I would see the day where I would say that my comfort zone lies in the paved and dirty streets of the city.

I guess it comes from being old and weary. Worn out. Not that I am really. Those of you in the know will scoff when you hear me say that I am thirty. I know I am a terrible cliché of a waning youth, but my cynicism is all I’ve got. And you’ve got to have something these days or you are just simply suburban.

Anyway, off the topic as usual. I am lying here in this ditch I dug, feeling the dryness of the earth and hoping to be at one with it. Hoping for grounding, so I can deal with the world when I open my eyes and drive back into the city. it’s my comfort and my punishment. I love Melbourne, but its tall grey buildings and secret alleyways play havoc on my sense of self. I feel like Melbourne is always hiding something from me and regardless of how fast I get into the latest club without a name in a dark festy alley filled with junkies, I’ll always be late.

My companion on my journey is also on a path of self-discovery disguised as loathing. It’s just not cool to be cool. He embraces it with the versatility youth brings. I even sneer at myself when I derride the young, knowing that my companion, loving called The Boy, is 10 years younger than me. But for any of you who remember their twenties, you will know and understand that the difference between 20 and 30 is a more than a wide yawn. It is a an uncrossable divide.

So what makes me pack up and leave my beloved city for 28 days to spend time with the youf of the country? Sex. It’s plain and simple really. Well at least I thought it was until by the 5^th day I had not got any and didn’t know if I had enough energy to not refuse another night. I would have to go about this one with all the intelligence a thirty year old woman can muster. And my manipulating pants pulled up tight.

I am thinking about all of this whilst laying in my shallow grave in the dirt. Eyes closed because I know he is out there and I want him to surprise me because I know it will be physical. Sometimes I even exhaust myself with my machinations. I wonder how I can make a move that is not a dedicated move, but is obvious, but is not pushy.

This is where the age difference is important. I don’t necessarily feel ten years older than the boy, but in fact I am therefore have a reputation within society to uphold. I was never really into out and out debauchery, despite the parties in my early twenties where we ripped off each others clothes and bed hopped all night. This boy was different anyway, he was a challenge. I had to make him want it so much that he lost control of himself. It’s all about winning with him, but you’ll gather more about that later.