Ocean of Emotion

Earlier this year, I had an eccentric lover with a romantic name that kissed like a European. We used to sit on my balcony getting drunk off wine and each other, talking about love and space and grief. We shared an immediate intimacy, and I was so grateful for it, having just gotten out of a relationship with a cold, emotionally-stunted boy. My lover was tall and wild and sensitive. On the sixth day, he told me he loved me.

He doesn’t speak to me anymore. My lovers are divided like that. Some of them have become my friends and we write to each other from time to time to say hello and I miss you, but come to think of it a lot of my lovers never want to see me again. As if they want all of me or not at all. It’s sad. I am not like that. I don’t understand why the intimacy disappears when the relationship ends; the person is still there. But I am beginning to realise that I have an exacerbated capacity to emote and, as such, have learnt not to fear feeling.

Earlier this morning, waiting for my take-away coffee, I watching people brunching in the sunshine and felt a little sorry for myself. It’s been one of those days when I need to be around people, and there are no people around. And then I thought, “I am amazing, ” and it made me tear up and smile at the same time. Because look at me, living without emotional padlocks. Letting the loneliness waft in out. Sometimes so anxious I hit myself. Sometimes so joyful I speak to strangers. Me, who cries on the floor at least once a month. Me. I do all those things all the time, and yet I am not bitter. Like Louis Armstrong, I think to myself, what a wonderful world. It’s kind of sensational to sail through storms of emotion, to have almost drowned in them so many times…and still not be scared of the ocean. Especially since I know people who don’t even dare to swim.

My January lover was like that, was like me. He suffered a lot, but he was also alive. I think he’s working on a vineyard in New Zealand now, with a girl he fell madly in love with. Sometimes people are there for you in small but pivotal ways. I hope he’s happy.

This song by Dustin O’Halloran reminds me of him.



sitting next to me on the tram there was a man that smelt like clean laundry and i almost leant my head on his shoulder, just to close my eyes for a moment, just to feel a shoulder. life is sensation but

that was an accident, but life is sensation, and sensational too

you learn not to need people and i don’t. he taught me that. he did too. there is strength in not needing people but there is comfort in knowing people are there if you need them.

this afternoon i panicked. maybe it was the dream i had about an invader in my childhood home. i think he killed someone. i don’t think it was me. maybe it was seeing my ex and realising i have no idea who i fell in love with, that he treated me terribly and i never fucking realised because he’s a good person. maybe it was because i haven’t eaten properly in two days. but it happened, i panicked. and i kept going. even though i didn’t want to. i had a long hot shower. i wore something sensual and violet. i went out and saw people that were happy to see me. i only had one glass of wine. the ride home was an inward spiral.

i am here and i am making spaghetti. i am here and i am going to eat spaghetti in bed and be okay. i am okay.

i like my shoulders.

“It’s really hard to be a rebel when you hate getting into trouble.”

“You know, I was thinking, watching Third Person… Do you ever write about me?”
And I laughed. But I thing is, I don’t. I don’t think I ever have. And that’s when I knew I wouldn’t see him again.

“Sometimes my centre is so ripe; I am of this world, but not in it.”

“I know I love myself because I’m sleeping naked again.”

“If you don’t like your face, change your eyes.”

“I must be the only person that uses yoga as an opportunity to self-punish.”

“I am so used to missing people that it almost doesn’t matter anymore.”

“The hook was hope. As if his regret was the proof I needed to believe that I am loveable.”

“Maybe we attach too much importance to external praise.”

“I think that if I could be with someone for a year, I could be with them forever.”

“Forgiveness is easy when you’re happy.”

“I mean, yes, the ones that hurt you the most are the ones you love the most. It’s inevitable. Not the ones that love you. It is you that loves them that hurts the most. But I think that their love for you is what heals you and allows you to move on from that pain. That’s when it becomes part of a stronger foundation. But when on love is not coming through to you, that pain becomes ugly. Barren. A sharp thing inside you. You can get used to it, and it can become part of your foundation. Once you pass through it, you are stronger, wiser. But I don’t think you ever really get over it. You just develop calloused fingers so it doesn’t hurt to hold it inside you anymore. This kind of pain will always exist, even when you forget to remember it. And so, yes, it is possible to never want to see someone again, even if you’ve forgive or forgotten them or both.

Some things are so traumatic to overcome. They take up so much energy and strength and perseverance to heal from, that once you’re on the other side, you can only be relieved that the door is behind you. Sometimes you are so grateful it’s over, you never want to think about it again.You will never open that door again, not even to get to the good bits.”

“We are more haunted by the those we hurt than the ones that hurt us.”

This Song is Called “I Only Think About You When I’m Sad”

Intimacy. It’s what I crave and also what terrifies me the most.

A friend says: “I’ll be friendly towards him. But if you want me to punch him in the face, I will.”

I have learnt to love from my mother and she loves like a lion. (How do lions love?)

Fear does not protect us. It is walking around a strange house at night–barefoot, blind, scared. Then sun will not come up until we’re comfortable with the darkness. Or, the sun will come up, but the night will always follow, so we must learnt to feel safe in the dark.

A friend says: “If you’re devastated, be it. There is no beauty or freedom in holding it in.”

You have to live without love, learn not to need it, in order to live with  it.

We feel better just by being with each other. I guess that’s called love.

“We have a lot of brothers we never had.”

“Asking someone to love you is listening to your heart’s desire. Pride is how you pick yourself up afterwards.”

Telling a cat nuzzling a book, “You can’t get affection from a book,” then, amending that statement…”If you can’t read.”

The key to controlling time is to think about it– or not.

We never stop loving anyone or fall out of love completely. It fades but can never disappear. Or the you that loved them gets smaller as you evolve and change. But the you that loved them will still always exist, even as a small, forgotten room in the mansion of your morphing soul

It is possible to be happy with the thought of past distress. Surviving trauma, and finding you still have the ability to laugh and love afterwards, means everything will be okay, always.

How many people have we walked by again and again in various suburbs or cities or even countries, and we just don’t know because we don’t know each other?

Sometimes we are better at playing the role of ourselves than actually being ourselves.

Lips are so much more intimate than tongues.

We cannot support equality if we do not include ourselves.

Qualities that turn me on

1. brilliance

2. generosity (of spirit, of wallet, of self)

3. power. confidence.

4. laughter (to do and induce)

5. comfort in non-conformity

6. good manners– the little things. goodness.

7.  loyalty* (this includes fidelity)

8. affection. affection. desire.


I am a puppy with love but rarely meet people that excite me.

“I fell in love the way you fell asleep; slowly, and then all at once.” YES.

You learn not to need people.


it wasn’t the big blue of them that turned your lacrymal ducts into taps but
the long black words, and what happened later. even when
her skirt                flew up, you only managed a 
    lower-case smile . 

the day was glass-coloured. you breathed through pricked holes.
sucked on angst like nicotine. 
sure, you (don’t) want to know is she a better fuck?
but more, is she a better fucking writer?


you saw one at first, then another but you let it 

and then, like drops before the storm, pops 
of it: cars, slow downs, construction jackets, bin lids, bags,
like a series of visual pinches

that’s when you cried
on the street                in front of 
the chinese chick with Sailor Moon hair and
the boy you would have checked out on a drier afternoon.

three taxis, a banana peel, your own reflection
(well, it is the colour of sickness)
a leaflet on the floor

you stopped seeing other colours. there were no other colours. 
and it is only when you got home and saw
the fragile pinkness of your eyes that you realised
there is always everything,
no matter what you choose to see

there is a picture of you as a kid,
wearing a prison-striped t-shirt that you loved.
and you remember 
that the collar was yellow.

and you fucking hated yellow.


a title (or sad on a sunny day)

i get epiphanies at unassuming moments. i was reaching for…something…at the supermarket. that was one, though i don’t remember which

but here are some:

i am very hard on myself. when i am glum, my mind abuses me. though perhaps, now in a saner mindspace, it is not wrong to do so. i suspect that one of the reasons i suffer so (this is no longer debatable) is because of some kind of human-value privilege. that is to say, the ego is constantly indignant that someone like me should suffer so. and what does my ego mean ‘someone like me’? the truth is that somewhere deep inside, i (my ego) or my ego (i) am outraged that someone that is smart and warm and witty and attractive and and and… is not immune to constant bouts of severe loneliness and–what is that word Nabokov tried to explain? ah! toska. toska, toska, fucking toska. 

“No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”

but who the fuck am i not to be unhappy? doesn’t that imply that, on some level, i assume others deserve it? of course this BULLSHITbut hey, the human mind, right? maybe i feel this way because people are always surprised (i think i am also always suprised) at the resilience of my isolation/unbelongingness.

here is another epiphany: 

i have never been with a man who was even close to being able to handle the twisted solar system of my mind. i do not doubt that i have been choosing the wrong men but nonetheless, not a single man that i have been in love with, not a single man that i have or would have devoted myself to…actually, even platonically, men seem to be incapable of swallowing the ocean of my mind. they are either overwhelmed by the depth of darkness into which i descend, or i see the i’m-a-hero light in their eyes and slam the door on them. 


how marvellous to realise that what this collective of men have failed to do, i have been doing my entire fucking life            


“you know you are on the right track when you become uninterested in looking back” first i thought no, because i’m looking back, haven’t stopped looking back since i was back there. but actually it’s true. because you can yearn for a past and still not want to go there.

i was folding jumpers at work when i realised he was part of my past. it doesn’t feel that way yet, not completely, but rationally, he is no more anything but my past. he is something that was and will never be again. 

getting over something happens in increments. i know i’m not over him. but there’s no rush, you can’t rush. it’s been almost ten months and some days it’s still a struggle (the way i was violently ill this one time and there happened to be coconut soap in the bathroom and so, for years, ever time i smelt artificial coconut, i’d dry-wretch. that’s what he is to me now: dry-wretch). it’s been ten months and i’m still getting used to not having him around. and this is how i know we are finished. because you can’t look back on something that has a painfulbreakuphorizon longer than the relationship itself. it’s like almost finishing the race and running back to help the asshole that tripped you over in the first place. and how long it takes me to get over someone is how much i loved them (no excuses, no apologies) and it’s funny (not haha, more sixfeetunder funny) but that struggle is precisely why i don’t look back or go back. hence, according to this instagram quote, i am on the right track. 

wait, did that make sense? i’m not over him so i can never go back to him. do you understand what i mean by that? i can’t forgive him this years’ pain. not that he wants me back. but you don’t need their question to know the answer.

what else is there to say? the usual, i’ve had too many days like this, sending casual messages asking if people are busy, invisible ink saying i’m having a bad day, i need people, i need a person, but i still have not learnt to say: i’m terrified of imposing. so i’m sitting on my front porch, already drunk (it’s 3:48pm), getting more and more used to being alone, reminding myself that this could be the way it always is so i might as well get used to it. when you’ve been dating for a dozen years, and every relationship has ended in you breaking someone or you being broken, how can you still not be used to being alone? when you move countries or cities all the time because this is what you do, haha, aren’t you hilarious and wild and unpinnable? shouldn’t you be used to belonging everywhere and not belonging anywhere? shouldn’t you be used to not being happy anywhere (is this why you’re not happy with anyone)?

but you know, it doesn’t matter, or you do get used to it. either way, it doesn’t matter. either you don’t let people save you, or you haven’t met someone worthy of saving you, or you need to learnt that no matter how much you save yourself, there will always be more to save. but shit, it isn’t about being saved but about sharing. and there is no shame in wanting to share the saving. i think that’s what i’m saving. i never needed him to save me, never needed any him, just wanted to feel like someone could hold me sometimes.


i don’t know, i don’t know

i had something to say and maybe i said it. maybe the wine washed it away before it was said. 

sad on a sunny day, that’s me. and i’m even used to that

but whateverwhateverwhatever with the blue posts. this year has been super, i can’t lie. but Lonely in Melbourne…those are two things i don’t want to be anymore. 

this will not end neatly so let’s just end it now (maybe this is what my ex was thinking)

thoughts on a berlin morning

we sat by the canal drinking beer and eating blueberries, talking about the things we usually talk about, noticing the ways we’ve changed. there is grey in our hair.

i am sitting by a big window in an apartment with high ceilings in berlin. i have already written this but i lost it somehow and i cried before i tried to remember. berlin is very german. things it seems to have a lot of: smokers, italians, wheelchairs. things it has few of: smiles, sunshine, good wine.

it’s in the lingering fingers. running through my hair like water. pressing the bone at the back of my neck like a button. i am liking these moments because there is no directionanxiety. his fingers and my skin are not exclusive. i like the way i’m skimming from boy to boy, collecting lovers like souvenirs. there is more freedom is belonging to several than belonging to one.

when his fingers found the crescent line of my jaw, i threw an arm over my eyes and rolled over, leaving a hand still in his. because there was too much sunlight and it seems that i am still scared of being seen. perhaps this is why my mood ripens at night. i am brave in the dark.

a she from a long time ago invited me out clubbing last night but i couldn’t be bothered to deal with the anxiety of the unknown. i might regret the no because i’m almost thirty and when will i get the chance to go clubbing in berlin again? but i have regretted many things and none of them have broken me. we stayed in, drinking organic red wine and watching youtube videos. when i went to sleep at four am, they seemed bemused.

a someone is playing the piano is the apartment across the courtyard. the sky is still. the sun has ripped through after a grey morning. there is a smell of cheap cigarettes. and also croissants.