I’m stuck in this flesh

Before attacking my mind with a pick-axe for that genius short story (it lurks somewhere in the goopy membrane) I thought I should do some self-indulgent non-fictional writing. A wise lady said that to write good fiction you need to write about yourself, to know who you are and what you’re all about. It’s about taking a risk, living precariously, skating on thin ice and like wearing a g-string in those denim hipster jeans, exposed and cold. Possibly white.

 

For ten minutes I try and close my mind down. Shut it down. Sometimes I wish there was an off switch or a reset button that I could press down on with the aid of a pin. There’s so much I want to do and thinking about it doesn’t it make it better. I want to write a short story. I want to sleep, eat, go to yoga. Read a book a day. Go back to the spa at the farmhouse where there was no mobile phone reception but lots of cake and biscuits and only paddocks surrounding, touching the sun and moon. Where rocks are ancient and scrambled upon and yabbies cannot be found. But mostly there is just silence, no train slicing their throats every day but only frogs in the dam beds and the sound of trees humming along. It’s poetic, Virginia Woolf would love it out there.

I want to go to Costa Rica and save turtles because it just seems so outrageous and unlikely and really, why not? I want to finish my novel. I want to sit down every day and discipline myself, speak firmly and drag myself through the awful mental agony that it is to find the words to write. Which only a creative person can know, but everyone is creative and in a way knows this pain. I want to reach the other side and feel what it’s like to say, “Oh yeah I’ve written a book.” Shrug like there’s nothing to it. But then I wonder where do you stop? One book is not enough and then you must drag yourself through it all again. It’s beautiful and horrible and I want to experience it at least once.

I wish cake and chocolate was a vegetable or fruit. Why can something that good be so bad for me and my skin? I want to give up sugar and have glowing skin that can only be achieved through strict punishment of not having any fun in life. I want to eat my sandwich without you puffing your cigarette through yellow stained lips thanks. I didn’t put nicotine in my sandwich this morning and plan on keeping it that way.

I want there to be more hours in the day but I want boring lectures to be shorter. Basil should not be seasonal. I spent too long nurturing my babies and they only lasted a few short months. Was it worth it? Well, the spaghetti tasted pretty rad. People on the trains should smile more often but I know I don’t smile or look at anyone anymore. I used to, but Melbourne is rubbing off on me to not wonder so much about other people but to focus on getting off at Melbourne Central Station.

I want to write on my blog more often and with more worthwhile posts. I don’t want to be self-indulgent but I’m stuck in this flesh, this skin and it’s wearing me down. So, I gave in and wrote about myself.

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4 Comments

Filed under writing

4 responses to “I’m stuck in this flesh

  1. Another Melbournite! If it’s any consolation, I think Southern Cross in rush hour is even worse. Someone once spontaneously started a conversation with me about philosophy near Melbourne Central. :)

    • freedomtights

      That sounds awesome! Any philosophy in particular?

      • They wanted to test a theory on me – not entirely sure if I understood it – that sensory experiences were just possibly false perception windows on the world, and did not accurately reflect the real world. As we have no other way of perceiving the world, I’m not sure what difference it would make. It was heavy stuff for a Wednesday morning! :)

      • freedomtights

        That sounds interesting.. But so early in the morning? Good luck with your ebook :) I shall be following your blog and look forward to hearing about it.

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