Feeling a bit stagnant: that "I'm not wholely here" feeling you get when you spend a lot of time looking at a computer trying desparately to be clever and warm. I try so hard on the screen that when I actually talk to people it comes out all wrong; cold, flat, dry. So I've been trying not to see anyone in fear I might run out of things to say or start talking about John Marsden (the writer not the sex offender) and never stop. Did have a lovely new years though at beautiful Light Brigade Hotel; cocktails with lychees and yummy French food. Then the party we were going to go to had left so we sat in a park and listened to what sounded like Sydney exploding but was just the fire works.

I have just spent a couple of days in Newcastle, or Belmont for those with a geographical interest, to support my father's caravan park's annual Christmas party. My dad's owned the park (or the avan, as we call it) since I was three and the same people have been coming to the Christmas party ever since. They still say I'm much bigger than last Christmas (which I think is starting to get a bit rude) and seem to be getting generally seedier by the year. One of the guys told me the most laughable joke I've heard all year, "When is black not black? When it's white": ha, ha, ha (I didn't get it but apparently he could see the back of my undies - I was wearing that stupid skirt). That's not to say there aren't some lovely people who live on the park, like Ken who brings you tea or coke every half an hour when you're working in the office. Unfortunately only the whinges come to the party, the sad and lonely hide in their vans. There are so many sad people on the caravan park, you wonder if it is the microcosm it pretends to be or whether sad people just end up there, in hot little vans. There was this one man who had no nose, a lovely man who couldn't afford to get a new nose constructed after having a cancer removed, so used to just wear an eye patch across where his nose used to be. He was shy, embarrassed perhaps or perhaps he didn't like the people around, we never found out his story. One of the neighbours hadn't seen him for days and was disturbed by the stench coming from his van so called my dad. The man was dead and had been for a week. No one had noticed; probably only would have when he didn't pay his rent. Special death men had to come and remove the body because it had fallen to pieces; apparently bodies do that quickly. On all of his documents my father was listed next of kin.
How can someone die so lonely? How can someone think they have no one who would care more about them than the person whose ground they pay to park their van on?

Someone told me the other day that I'm insecure. And now suddenly I'm flushed with teen angst wondering if I am. And more importantly thinking that if I'm even considering the idea then I must be, because only someone insecure would dwell on such thoughts, particularly when they're thought by someone else. Welcome to my thesis writing psyche: one of endless destractability.

I get so disappointed when people don't write in their blogs, and here I am, a month since my last entry, still not knowing what to write.
I went to a yoga retreat on the weekend. It was on the Berowra River, which I canoed down on Sunday. I was overwhelmed by the bush. I felt uneasy and threatened somehow. It's quite a stereotypical feeling really, but you can't help it when you feel stereotypes. I've studied lots of Australian writers who wanted to disarm the bush of its unsettling 'emptiness', so they invested it with Aboriginal spirits. I didn't do that, I felt really alone. I didn't feel at home at all, or comforted by nature.

Mmmm. I'm finding it difficult to keep writing analytically about eroticism as void, abyss, violent violation of self and other in attempt to know. I don't think I'll ever be able to have sex again.
I had a shit day yesterday in interviews trying to select next years UR editors. The interviewees were really good, it was quite daunting really. What made the day shit was the arrogant penises who sat on the interview panel. It's supposed to be democratic but there's nothing democratic about seeing who can say their votes louder. Can't really express how irritating the whole experience was.
I can't wait until Monday when I hand this fucking essay in.

Well, hello. Today I'm writing about "Black Sea", a short story by David Brooks, one of my lecturers. Now, there are a few problems with writing about a story by your lecturer. The first is obviously that he'll read what you write and think you completely got it "wrong" or worse, be offended. The second is that this story is about an erotic affair, and about finding yourself through the "red channel, passage" of the other in the violent sacrifice of (explicitly described) sex. It's so hard to read without picturing David in the place of the narrator, particularly after someone teasingly told me (a very reliable source) that David's really well hung: great image. EEEEErk. Lets just say it's been a slow day of writing.

I don't think blogging is necessarily that satisfying. It's like conversing to no one, or some far off listener who more than likely won't reply. Liz told me that she found it really funny that most people who we know who blog have some idea of themselves as writers and have been published before. Writers want to put their lives into words, they don't mind showing it like that. I don't really consider myself a writer, but of the other writing I do do the blog is different. When I write in the blog I kind of want answers or exchange. I should really build a range of responses into my computer; laughter, pity, sorrow, disgust. Or maybe I should just ring someone and talk about John Howard and my new undie swallowing skirt. But then sometimes you don't know who to ring. Sometimes you just feel lonely.

I just bought a new denim skirt. It's waaaay too funky for me, but it goes past the knee so at least it's modest. The woman in the shop said it would stretch and I fuckin hope so because I can't sit down and every time I put it on I loose my undies up my bum or around my ankles. See ya.

I don't like John Howard. When Johnnie was asked what he thought women wanted a couple of weeks ago, he said that he thought they wanted fulfilling relationships. And as if to prove the form this fulfillment would take, Howard today releases the baby policy, which seems to me to promote a 1950s notion of the family and the work force. More than that, this policy which is supposed to allow mothers (not parents) the choice to stay at home, is so piss weak (a max of $2 500 a year if you were earning $50 000) that it seems to me an pretty unrealistic incentive. Maybe I've missed something, if so can someone let me know?
Other than a general disappointment at the state of politics in Australia and an intense attempt to talk to my mother about her conservative views on homosexuality, life has been pretty fun lately.
I'm still writing the big smelly essay on eroticism although I've changed the topic to "The Sexual Body and Desire".
Went to a reading by David Malouf on Thursday which was interesting, but I must admit I tend to drift off a bit in readings, so I enjoyed the discussion afterwards the most. He talked about a theme in Australian literature which promotes an open and hospitable society but simultaneously sees the need to protect Australia from "invasion". Sound familiar.
I must return Rachael's thanks (to Hanna and Erin too) for a fabulous Saturday night. We really should go dancing more often.
Sorry this is a boring entry, I'm just using it as brain dead procrastination. Hope you are well.