Find me at _fissures.

i admit to growing insular, of growing deaf to my inner dialogues. i can no longer pretend that i will come back here - i cut viennawaltzing away from myself as one would a disabled limb. these past weeks and maybe months have forced me to cleave through my desires, to weigh each against the other and my dedication to my journal has fallen, ( Read more... )

1.

I'm caged by scrutinizing glances: measuring my bones, the notches of my spine, the angle and shadow of clavicles and rise of the neck from this froth of bone and flesh. I'm Dali's Barcelona Mannequin; hewn through by prying eyes, layer under layer of convoluted mechanism: pelvis propped by an hourglass, heart an empty box, lid hanging by a ( Read more... )

when do you breathe with days that start at 5.45am and end at 11.30pm when you lie in bed and weed your mind for thoughts so sleep can settle into the cleared spaces? i breathe travelling back and forth from school, i doze with a mouthful of guilt in the death of the afternoon. i wish i was here more often than this, but time skins me like a fish ( Read more... )

for the last week i've been cocooned in art school, working endlessly with sore shoulders and sore feet and limbs plastered by paint. it was over on saturday when we held the exhibition and all the works were displayed. we spent the whole day setting up with the majority of paintings housed in the white-washed studios of third year students. i was ( Read more... )

a pinch of saffron

i bought the sheet music for gershwin's rhapsody in blue and it's spread over the ebony silk piano, tantalising my challenged fingers. glenn gould rattles away at bach's fugues as i rattle through a biography of trotsky: egoistic and brilliant, 'too many mediocrities in the world' and no friends, because friendships are founded ( Read more... )

new year's eve was too much wine, playing cards and slapping at mosquitoes under the bare sky with raccuous boys, cherries and cheese and glace ginger and belle and sebastian. there were anaemic chinadolls whittled down to bone, fingers intwined. barely twenty and already married, outpouring a language i don't understand. i watched fireworks ( Read more... )

I see the word Arcadia and think of that brief week at art school. It materialises as a memory of sparse floorboards and heavy walls that ran to meet the ground, wide white windows, a forest of easels, and a narrow convulsing staircase. Our studio was on the top floor of the cylindrical building encrusted with sandstone, which meant we were closest ( Read more... )

Early morning is a low-light white, a winnowed grey that seeps into the lace hem of my curtain. I pry open the window and the cool, damp air curls around my fingers and converses with a solitary cobweb. The walls of my room are candy pink, they came with the house. The girl who used to live here must have had a life full of roses and rocking horses ( Read more... )

Chatting to girls my age over the fence, balancing a teacup and saucer with a silver spoon hanging between my teeth (I was having tea in the courtyard) whilst they perch on the tin roof of their garden shed, dripping chlorinated water from their pool. They've just finished their HSC and from our conversation I scooped out some amusing gems.

On ( Read more... )