And it's good! Can't complain.
"Friends - you know who you are; you know we're grateful." - Blur, 1993. (Seriously. If ever a year was about Who Your Real Friends Are, it was 2011.)
Similarly, those who have fucked me up and fucked me over this year most likely know who they are also, and possibly how I feel about this (hint: angry, bewildered and sad) - with the possible exception of the Rt Hon Lord Mayor of Melbourne Robert Doyle (note contact details), who I strongly suspect does not have any idea who I am.
(I also doubt he reads this blog. But since it just can't be said often enough I might as well take this opportunity to (re)state, for the record: Robert Doyle, you're a fucking cunt. You really are.)
The bulk of this year's SIDTY post I rendered in audio format at the coast a few nights ago. It goes into a bit more detail (although, to be honest, not all that much). Enjoy:
Vale 2011. Viva 2012.
Happy new year!
Posted at 11:11 PM in :), Adversity, Audio, Awesomeness, Being A Cunt To Schmobos, Benevolence, Cunts, Discombobulation, Dreams, Drugs, Exhaustion, Here Is The News, History, Illusion Of Time, Life Is Good, Night Time, Occupy, People, Perseverence, Philosophica, Photos, Self Analysis, Swings & Roundabouts, the walls are mushy, Victory, w0ot, Weblogs | Permalink | Comments (3)
Saturday 17th July.
Most fiasco-tastic DP evar! It's been a bit like that lately. I almost gave up and cancelled it. But I'm very glad I didn't, coz despite all kinds of stupid problems in the end it still went OFF.
(10:21pm; 4min 59sec)
Amongst other things, the DPP planning committee encountered considerable guestlist difficulty. Despite and at least partly because of no less than three date changes aimed at accommodating them all and genuine enthusiasm from at least some quarters, exactly none of the invitees I'd originally lined up ultimately managed to make it.
(10:55pm; 1min 17sec)
Which might have been considered a fairly abject fail - were it not for the inspiringly circus-saving company of previous-attendee legends who, in flagrant violation of DPP rules, valiantly braved the cold and brought the awse instead: Matt K (DPs I and III), Twyllan (DP II), Henley (DP III), Sarah aka The Major (DP IV), Pablo (DPP virgin), Luke (DP IV), and of course Grimsey (DPs I, II, III and IV). Fucken <3.
(12:24am; 4min 28sec)
It was an unprecedentedly structured DP. As per a preestablished order of proceedings there was soup, then salad, then pie, then the merciless destruction and defilement of an old chair that had unforgiveably given way under DP I alumnus Bourkie at CH the night before. Then, naturally, muffins.
(1:16am; 2min 26sec)
Along the way there were tears (not really); there was laughter. It was epic.
(2:34am; 2min 49sec)
Posted at 07:11 AM in Adversity, Art, Audio, Awesomeness, Benevolence, Chaos, Current Affairs, Damage Control, Destruction, Discombobulation, Food, It'll All Come Good, Muntedness, People, Perseverence, Photos, Relational Aesthetics, Self Analysis, Should I Be Saying This On This Internet?, Swings & Roundabouts, The DPP, Things To Be Thankful For | Permalink | Comments (0)
Went under: May '06.
Went under: April '07.
Went under: November '08.
I've - yeah - never talked directly about this stuff here much in the past. (Edit: except at the very beginning, I guess.) I don't know why I am now, or if it's sensible. Talking about badness just feeds into it.
I just got nothin' else to talk about RN. The only thing I really care about is getting out of this $%# hole.
Which is kind of the problem.
FFS stop digging and chill the fuck out, man.
Freakley told me last night to turn my shittiness into art. Personal motto: "redeem garbage", apparently. This is what she told me when we first met in early '07, too.
"Make art!" she says.
She's good like that.
Trouble is, my shittiness basically consists of an inability to put any meaningful form or shape around anything. Narrative failure. Everything seems completely empty and pointless. Whinge piss moan blah.
When I crash, I tear myself to pieces trying to Figure Myself And Everything Generally Out - metaphysical arms flailing comically - until I feel my sanity seriously starting to disintegrate. Then I give up, and just live vacantly from one atomized moment to the next.
There's not much you can make from that. Got art? Well, no. That's kind of the problem.
That said, this here blog was originally started in a bid to pull myself out of that void. And it totally worked, over time.
But the last two times I've been seriously down since then (mid '06; mid '07), I didn't really talk about it much here. It seemed self-sabotaging to advertise it too explicitly. And also pointless. Natch.
I didn't really socialise, either. This time I am, a bit. I worry that's similarly self-sabotaging and is doing irrepairable damage to the relationships in question.
Contact with other people gives you (some) perspective, makes you feel less alone, and generally makes life a bit easier. All of which is nice.
But ultimately allowing people to see much of you when you're like this just weakens you further. It just fuels the negative self image which is getting you so down in the first place.
"Hi, my existence is a gaping abyss of infinite horror; I feel completely worthless and useless, and I don't really give a shit about anything except how useless and worthless I feel. Er.. how are you?" Doesn't help.
Meh; I'm on the up, gradually.
I was really in hell a few months ago.
I'm not in hell now. Just - yeah - a big ol' envoided vacuum of blah.
And I won't be here forever.
Starring this chick.
Posted at 10:19 AM in Art, Audio, Benevolence, Boogie Fever, Cryptography, Discombobulation, Dreams, Drugs, Evil, Found, Genius, Here Is The News, Illusion Of Time, Liable For Nothing, Muntedness, Mysteries, Night Time, Nothing, People, Photos, Self Analysis, Signs Of The Apocalypse, some do it fast, some do it better in smaller amounts, The Liberator Who Destroyed My Property Has Realigned My Perceptions, the walls are mushy, These Hippies Are Not Messing Around, Travel, w0ot | Permalink | Comments (2)
Looking at old TF posts for the purposes of linking to them in more recent TF posts, I was struck by something: No fucker is commenting here any more. (Except Liv. And Li. And Wortwut. And the odd Neurocam random combing the archives.) (Gotta love those tenacious, cockroachlike Neurocam randoms.)
Where have you gone, beloved blog massive?
Do you not love me any more?
Is it because Lady J doesn't love me any more?
That's it, isn't it.
It is. Don't lie.
Actually, I don't think that's really it at all. It's all about me. (It is always all about me.)
To get perhaps ill-advisedly personal for a moment (Li will enjoy this):
And I got lots of comments in those days. Because as we all know, if you love yourself - like, really, truly do - then everyone else will love you too. Everyone who matters, anyways.
LJ fell in love with me at around this time. And that was great. But then I think I became dependent on her loving me in order to love myself. So when she stopped, I kinda stopped as well. Et voila: blog comments? Thing of the past.
It's more complex than that, naturally. But it's One Way Of Looking At Things. Makes a lot of sense to me.
This is partly the reason people sing the blues when their partners leave them. It's partly that you just desperately miss having them around, course; it's partly the shattered dreams of future happiness; it's partly the sense that all this time and energy expended on getting to know this person really, really well and them getting to know you really, really well, and building trust and constructing a shared identity and blah blah blah has all gone totally to waste. It's partly because you feel like a part of your very soul has been ripped out, leaving a huge gaping hole in your psyche.
But it's also significantly because you've forgotten how to love yourself without someone else to back you up on it.
That's really, really bad though. You shouldn't need anyone else to love you. And the more you do, the less they will.
Am I wrong, non-existent blog readers?
It's one of those perverse inverse dynamics that The Universe is so fond of, for some sick twisted reason that I will never entirely understand [*] except maybe when I'm on nitrous oxide.
Ah, sweet nitrous oxide.
It will never leave me. Until they make it illegal.
(Why isn't it illegal? It's so good.)
[*] NB This is disingenuous; I do in fact understand perfectly. It's because people are attracted to power and personal power derives from self-sufficiency. But for the purposes of allowing this post to form a nice, natural arc, I had to pretend to be stupider than I really am. Funny how that happens sometimes.
I missed most of 2007.
It started excellently, and ended okay. Adventures were had, things were discovered; it was not a total dead loss. But overall it will not be remembered as a banner year on Planet Teigan.
This year, amongst assorted other things (see archives), I:
One shouldn't, though.
Coz one Is Really Good at What One Does.
And What One Does is totally Worth Doing.
I like these moments.
"On Monday morning, Paxton was woken at five from a claustrophobic, anxious sleep by the weight of his worry. After disentangling himself from the sweaty unwelcome embrace of his patchwork quilt, he padded over to his bedroom window and pressed his nose forlornly against the glass. The sky was clear and dark and sparkling - there was, as yet, no sign of the sun."
Jo (who I won't link coz she hasn't updated since March; maybe it's just me, but I think her blog's dead) told me the other week that my posts had become very cryptic this year.
I knew what she meant. But at the same time I was kind of bemused.
My posts have always been very cryptic. Sometimes they've been so cryptic that I didn't even get them properly myself until ages afterwards.
This one here is a perfect example. I'm really not at all sure why I'm writing this - but I just know I'll look at it in four months time, or in 2012, or whenever, and go "Ah, I see!! Ingenious, Teigs."
Brains are funny.
I - which is to say, a close personal friend of mine - keeps getting sent zombie invitations on Facebook.
I don't know what that's about either.
I blame you, Carfax. Just let it lie, whycantcha?
I recently had cause to send someone a link to my Neurocam Perception Assessment. It is two years old this month.
Rereading it was quite the life-is-strange moment. Many syncronicities and other peculiarities emerged. I even bag out Vanstone in it at one point. Actually, that's not particularly strange. But the whole thing was funny.
Life is funny. Time flies. Other cliches.
That's all, I guess.
But on a related note: since, surprisingly, no one else has picked this one up (as far as I'm aware) I suppose it falls to me to ask - does this dastardly unidentified voyeuristic spycam shoe bandit sound suspiciously like anyone we know?
And with that I must away, dear readers, for now I have an important date with the Green
Or alternately, if you're miserable and you know it - and it's just no good at all...
CLAP. YOUR. HANDS.
If you're happy and you know it,
And you really wanna show it,
If you're happy and you know it... clap your hands!
I feel better already.
Despite - he said, by way of explanation - the depressing fact that I have failed.
I am A Failure; one who has failed. That is What I Am.
It's the last day of November. And despite my best intentions, I have failed to write a 50,000-word novel.
I gave it a good old Aussie go, though. Really, truly did!
But I didn't write 50,000 words - and I didn't finish it. And it's dead now. It doesn't want to be worked on any more. It has become a stinky moribund dead project that pains me and makes me annoyed at myself. And it's bad when you annoy yourself.
Winces, girds loins, drives a stake through its beloved heart.
It's dead. RIP, first attempt at writing a novel.
The silver lining is, I'm actually well pleased with the 37,566 words I did write. They came out great.
Which was really the problem. They were too good. Consequently, somewhere along the line, I forgot to not take myself seriously. Which is the whole big-thing point of NaNoWriMo. You can write a stupid 50,000 word novel in a month. But unless you are a bona fide literary genius, you can't write a good one. Forget about it.
I'm tempted to quote Alanis Morrisette at this juncture. But for everyone's sake, I shall abstain.
The point is: I'm, like, trying to be philosophical and shit. I feel pain now, but I know the venture was far from a dead loss. In the end, I got more out of it than I would have if I hadn't undertaken it. And in any case, I've lost nothing. Just a ride. Etcetera.
In other shittiness news, nobody but a handful of stalwarts - it seems - can come to our party.
Again, I don't feel too bad about it. It's getting towards That Time Of Year; everybody has lots of prior engagements. A bunch of people came to the last one - and most if not all appeared to genuinely have a good time. So it's not like this is a sign that all our friends secretly hate our guts, or think our parties suck.
Kudos to you, my friend. Kudos to you. No, I wouldn't come to my party either. You have better things to do. Course you do. We're not really going to kill you. That was totally, like, an empty threat. Course it was.
Love your work.
Oh, man - that's the shit, right there.
Oh yeah. Oh yeah.
Excuse me, I have to be alone with my hands for a while.
I wasn't planning to originally, but Semi talked me into it on the grounds that the Greens will likely take some seats away from serious politicians, which is always a good cause. I hope he is having fun at Earthcore. I imagine that he is.
I just voted for the Greens whilst tripping on leftover cactus, partly in his honor. I'm sure Bob Brown (with whom I once shared a taxi, whilst dressed as a giant koala - i'm sure it wasn't just a dream) would not disapprove. I tried to imagine what John Howard would feel. I tried to imagine him feeling pain in some way. How I tried. But all I could see was him going "stupid hippies; ah well, *shrugs*, they will all self-destruct soon enough anyway", and not understanding at all. Which kind of pissed me off, but did at least make me feel like, in some obscure way, I had not done entirely the wrong thing.
~ has suggested to me that the girl Gelfling ultimately dies; but I feel sure that this cannot be the whole truth. Henson and Oz would not do that to me. They would not dare.
I will watch their silly movie, in any case. They can bring it. Doesn't matter if the chick dies; the whole healed-crystal thing redundifies such petty concerns.
Yes, it does.
Posted at 08:46 PM in Art, Benevolence, Current Affairs, Damage Control, Desperation, Dreams, Drugs, Food, Genius, Heh, Here Is The News, Illusion Of Time, left the puzzle undone, ain't that the way it is, Life Is Good, Movies, Music, Night Time, Nothing, People, Pictures Of Lady J, Self Analysis, Sex, Weblogs, Whack | Permalink | Comments (24)
On the evening before my nite of nites, heh. But hey, I'm young (20), I can get away with that kind of thing.
Anyway. I got tagged with this ages ago. Generally I disregard such things but I actually saved this, against such a time as I would be able to do it.
That time is now.
What's On Your iPod?
4420 songs (12.4 days, 20.3 GB)
5 videos (28:24 minutes, 248 MB)
0 photos (0 MB)
Sorted by artist
First artist: The 5,6,7,8s
Last artist: Zamfir
(both tracks from the Kill Bill Vol 1 soundtrack, funnily enough)
Sorted by song title
First Song: 'Cello Song by Nick Drake
Last Song: Zyclon B. Zombie by Throbbing Gristle
Sorted by time
Shortest Song: 0:04, Harmonic Necklace by Penguin Cafe Orchestra
Longest Song: 31:31, All Apologies by Nirvana
Sorted by album
First Album: 13 by Blur
Last Album: Young Team by Mogwai
How many hits when you search for "sex"? 39
How many hits when you search for "death"? 19
How many hits when you search for "love"? 264
How many hits when you search for "angel"? 60
(more than sex & death combined, which is also funny)
How many playlists?
None as yet.
First ten songs that come up on shuffle
1. Singing The Blues by Tricky
2. Good Feeling by Violent Femmes
3. I Am The Resurrection by The Stone Roses
4. Sundrops by Kristin Hersh
5. Fait Accompli by Curve
6. Flying Dutchman by Tori Amos
7. Who Needs The Peace Corps by Frank Zappa
8. Electronic Renaissance by Belle & Sebastian
9. Drive You Home by Garbage
10. A Letter To Elise (Blue Mix) by The Cure
Ten most played songs
(nb these stats are inherited from iTunes and reflect a three-year legacy)
1. Katrina by Killing Heidi (194 plays)
2. The Reflecting God by Marilyn Manson (176 plays)
3. Queer by Garbage (154 plays)
4. Playboy Mommy by Tori Amos (148 plays)
5. For My Lover by Tracy Chapman (124 plays)
6. Watch Your Back by Avant Garde (117 plays)
7. Someday I'll Find You by Craig Armstrong & The London Symphony Orchestra feat. Shola Ama (112 plays)
8. A Sorta Fairytale by Tori Amos (98 plays)
9. Bad Ambassador by The Divine Comedy (84 plays)
10. I'm With You by Avril Lavigne (79 plays)
I tag LJ (and anyone else reading this with a blog and a proper motherfucking iPod).
Time for a review.