Lust For Life

Everything seems absolutely excruciatingly alive at the moment, and I’m feeling it all at once. I had a strange moment on my way home from work today, after remembering a conversation with a friend last night about the never-ending need to somehow respond to life, to art, to everything I see, hear, read, feel. Then I thought, what other way could I respond? This is what got me. I thought of children. Of how they’re the ultimate response. Except you can’t control them, completely. You mould them a little bit, but once you leave them for a bit, in the sun, in the kiln, on their own, they turn into something you kind of half anticipated, but didn’t really. I’m comparing children to clay, yes, it’s an innocent, naive kind of comparison, but still an enormous one. The most enormous part is when you consider how much of an incredible thing it is to actually make a child. You’re giving the gift of life. LIFE. Hey, hey you there, welcome, here’s the world, it’s all yours, you can do whatever the hell you want with it. I’m not sure why it took me so long to realise this, maybe I already had, but somehow must’ve forgotten along the way. Suddenly I felt a huge appreciation for family, for life. I’m alive. So are you.You know this. Duh.

Nevertheless, being so hyper sensitive is making me really quite in love with people, all the time. It’s confusing. What’s more confusing is that a friend of mine was crying all day because somehow she feels like she’s really in love with just this one person, for the first time, properly. After so many relationships. I guess that's what everyone feels in the beginning. I don’t know if I believe it, I don’t know if she believes it, I don’t know how anyone believes it. I’d like to have that much faith. Especially so early on. But all I know is that there are people I know I love, because I think about them daily. And often I find myself telling small portions of these types of things to those people, but there’s always something I hold back from each person, though that something is never the same. If I did tell everyone everything, and they did the same, would that be some sort of higher love? If I just really payed attention to it all, forgave every detail, listened, cared, hung around, didn’t mind the boring parts, I dunno, you see there’s so much more and it’s just how people are, and to me every real true friendship is love, and these things just happen, I can’t control them. But I do believe in karma, and luck - so much of it is luck and timing and coincidence, so why am I bothering trying to figure this out? It really isn’t as complicated as it seems. I just have to let it be. Let people in, more. Use more intuition. Maybe that's all I have. I guess I should stop analysing, trying to control, predict. I should live more vulnerably and not be afraid of that vulnerability. 'Lean into the discomfort', and 'with fragile honesty'. One of those lines is from a Ted Talk, and one from a Huxley book called 'Doors of Perception'. I'm not sure which is from where, but both have stuck in my mind, and I keep coming back to them.

I guess this all didn’t need to be said, really. You just need to hear one line from a Jen Cloher song: ‘Love is a feeling, but feeling aint fact’. That’s just the way it is. We'll all get used to it, eventually. Or maybe we won't. Maybe that's part of the fun. And so it goes.

A friend posed a really interesting concept to me the other day: If someone finds something (he used the example of a flower, but you can imagine anything, I'm thinking a person), really appreciates it, has a beautiful moment with it, and then someone else comes along later and feels the same - is the moment, or appreciation, or connection, just as valid? Is it less valid if heaps of people do the same? Or if a group of people have that appreciation together? And does it matter? Can, or should, these things be measured? See, this is what I’ve been wandering about loving more than one person at once, as with polygamy. Or with non commitment, casual relationships, friendships and love and all of that. What makes one love so much more full than all the rest? Is it as simple as more time, a fuller level of honesty and understanding, of investment and trust? Maybe. Then, how many people should I let myself open up to? This is what I’ve been thinking. I only half have answers, at the moment.

I've also been thinking that people are often too polite to open up to people. Too polite and afraid at the same time. There's also a strange expectation or confusion, often, between people my age, that leads to a lack in honesty and prevents proper connection, because people always wander about whether a guy/girl/other is into you, in a romantic sense, or even just a sexual sense. It gets frustrating. It's nerve wracking, then exciting, then tiring. Someone told me they consider a whole lot of people as though they're never platonic, like they're always on the edge of potentially being something more than friends. I found that same kind of idea imbedded in Brave New World. I like the idea, in that book, that sex and sexuality is confronted and encouraged in youth, not such an exclusive and strangely important concept only for child birth. At the same time, I think the idea could be taken too far, and sex and love too far removed from one another. The whole thing could be devoid of feeling. When I mentioned polygamy earlier, I wandered about the same thing. How much sex and love is honest, how much just something to pass the time, how much is too much? Where's the line between true appreciation and too much of a good thing? Guys, and girls, and those in between, have had so many expectations in the past about what should and shouldn't be. Guys being placed in the 'sleaze' category, girls into either 'tease' or 'slut' or 'frigid', and I'm glad the lines are closing up and these words are becoming less accepted and used. That's not to say they have been completely eradicated, though. 
Although this song was written by The Dresden Dolls years ago, and it excludes people who are neither male or female, I think there's still a lot of truth and relevance in the lyrics: 

'why all these conflicting specifications? 

maybe to prevent over-population

but all I know is that all around the nation

the girls are crying and the boys are masturbating'

With people not being either gender, or either sexuality, so many doors are opening up. Things are more fluid, free, you could say progressive or bohemian even, etcetera, but it's also more blurred, there's less stability, and still I think people are too nervous to talk about a lot of it. It sure as hell makes things confusing, too. Again, I'm stuck for concrete answers, so I think I'll move on.

Another friend asked me recently if I considered myself an honest person. I answered by saying I’d like to think I’m honest, but that perhaps I don’t say enough, that I’m not open all the time, which could be seen as not fully being honest. I left a lot out of that answer though. I’ve realised since that I also contradict myself a lot, I change my mind about things, so what was once honesty then turns into a lie, when I change my mind. I also exaggerate too much, and often pretend to understand things so as not to confuse conversations, rather than admitting my flaws. The people I admire most are people who admit to their own lack of knowledge, nerves, confusion. 

Amanda Palmer is one of those people. In ‘Trout Heart Replica’, she lays it all out like this:

‘feeling helpless

acting selfish

being human and all’.

I’ve been noticing more and more, lately, how often people say yes when they really mean no, how much enthusiasm flows out of insecurity and anxiety, and just how fragile everyone really is. It’s made me appreciate even the most irrational people, a little bit more. Nobody knows what’s going on. Nobody knows how to deal with it. It’s comforting.

There’s another section in an Edie Brickell song that works here:

‘I’m not aware of too many things, I know what I know, if you know what I mean.

Philosophy is the talk on the cereal box.

Religion is the smile on a dog.

I’m not aware of too many things, I know what I know, if you know what I mean. Do ya?

Shove me in the shallow water, before I get too deep.

What I am is what I am, are you what you are, or what?’.

This whole idea of being honest vs hiding things/keeping things, and being true to yourself (‘what I am is what I am, are you what you are, or what?’) goes back to the idea of over-sharing significant moments and significant thoughts (depending on what you consider ‘significant’) with more than one person. Writing here, on a blog, at times I feel everything is spread too far around. It’s the same with sharing an art, music, poetry, whether in a gallery, or at a gig, or when you’re publishing a book, it goes on. All of a sudden it’s all hanging out everywhere, and it’s not yours anymore. It’s a communal thing. It’s difficult to decide what should be communal, sometimes. I’m sure a lot of people could relate to that thought.

Imagine living your whole life just sharing your most profound thoughts with strangers on bus trips, or being the homeless man on the street corner who talks to the occasional kind hearted passers-by who aren’t afraid, or being Jack Kerouac and being free of commitment, of dedication, meeting new people every day but never sticking to just one. I love the openness I can have with strangers, because there are very few preconceptions and expectations. I’d like to live that way with everyone, to not act certain ways because it’s expected, especially with people I know well. I think maybe I'm too ok with not knowing the people close to me. But also, there's a kind of mutual acceptance of that fact too, with many people. Hmm.

Back to those small, fleeting connections - if you only had them, would you feel fulfilled? If you didn’t have good friends, but you had countless heartfelt moments with acquaintances, would it be satisfying? I don’t know. I think I’d always be too curious about the other person’s thoughts. I’d have to keep going back. 

Small talk is interesting that way. It leaves a mystery, but it can be dreadfully boring. Though, I find it comforting with people I see a lot. Because we’re both aware so much has already been said, or understood, that the small talk’s just a mundane way to pass the time, like some lines you just have to say. It’s the same with banter.

‘The little conversations

on me are very rough

they leave me all in pieces

you know there’s never time enough

it’s like a book with missing pages

like a story incomplete

like a painting left unfinished

it feels like not enough to eat

starving’.

(Johnette Napolitano, from Concrete Blonde)

The people who fascinate me the most are those who are slightly out of reach. Of course this is probably true for most people, and maybe I’m spoiling that concept about myself by putting so many of this stuff out there. That level of curiosity mixed simultaneously with nerves and excitement is such a nice feeling. The anticipation of knowing people and knowing there’s more to know keeps me endlessly fascinated. 

I think some people thrive off knowing they’re a mystery to others. It becomes like a game, especially to those who put up a face that isn’t their own, much of the time. But I think that game can become more boring than anything, after a while. Fiona Apple mentions the concept in one of her songs, too: 

’All that loving must’ve been lacking something

if I got bored trying to figure you out’. 

It becomes boring because you know that you’re not going to see the truth. Some people are just not there to be reached. They’re too interested in not being real, perhaps because they’re afraid of themselves. I think that goes away after time, for a lot of people, but for some it never seems to. There’s a fine line between being honestly, quietly mysterious, and being falsely mysterious. If your life is too much of an act, where is the truth? I remember hearing Nick Cave talking about that. How for him, he became his act, to a certain extent. Not purposefully, probably. But still, it’d be so difficult. I think fame and popularity would completely destroy some people. Even if they don’t want it to. The most well known are the most unknown, and I wander if they know themselves. 

On a slightly different note, I love seeing couples, especially old ones, really surprised about small parts of the other person’s character and actions. It’s comforting to know that surprise is still possible in the longest and strongest relationships. Because of this, in my opinion, I try not to worry about seeming mysterious, because I like to think there will always be mystery, even if you know someone like you know the contents of your fridge on a Monday night when you should be doing something, but you’re not. There’s always more to know, hence my Lust For Life. (This is the time when you go on youtube and listen to that Iggy Pop song.)

These are some other small things that are keeping me in lust with life at the moment:

• Lying on grass, or sitting on a bed, or in a grubby alley, on some sand, in a coffee shop, anywhere, and doing nothing, but with people who particularly matter to me
• Solid eye contact, especially with a knowing smile
• Awkward strange airs of expectancy and nervousness
• Really missing people, for no rational reason, all at once
• People I half know, but see all the time, and feel completely comfortable around, somehow
• Completely wanting to know someone’s everything. I think I mentioned that earlier
• Bugs. They seem to be a sign of connection, lately bugs come out when I have really good chats
• Tenderness, leaning on people’s shoulders, a pat on the back, a good hug, an awkward hug, a crap high five, an arm resting against mine, and so it goes
• When people just really pay attention to things I say, that seemed unimportant but somehow stuck in their minds
• Doing everything, but everything that’s really nothing
• Running down steep hills
• Guacamole, yoghurt, fruit juice
• Burying my feet in sand
• Losing things and not minding that they’re lost
• Hearing my brother and sisters being fascinated by the smallest, strangest things
• When it’s quiet enough to only hear trees rustling and traffic moving
• Pillows that look like they’re falling over one another. I imagine the pillows are people and that they’re playing ‘stacks on’, or that they’re lying together, exhausted, watching the world as though it’s a tv

Maybe I’ll add to this later when I discover new things. Or maybe I’ll just write a new post. Thanks for reading.

Most people don't stay green, fish don't fly, but Sally becomes a Grinch.

Faces are greenest when people are children. In this world, as you grow older, the richness fades to a paler, lime-like green. There's an awkward stage when it becomes vomit green, and a heartbreaking stage when you become so pale your face is almost translucent.

If you smile a lot, the lines on either side of your eyes become super pale. If you worry, the lines between your brows do the same. It's very easy to tell what people are like, or, rather, how they've acted in the past. 

It's not only these small expressions of emotion that change the colour of your face. What most people don't know is that there's another very important reason for the quickening of a face's under-saturation. It happens subtly to the nicest of people. Most believe it's out of their control, but that's not true. The thing is, nice people are always polite. Or over-enthusiastic. Many are afraid of criticism. Or they want it more than anything, but are too busy being nice, so nobody dares say a cruel word to them, because they're afraid of being the bad guy. The thing about fear is that it's the last thing anybody admits to. Well except for love, but of course I'm too afraid to talk about that.

Unlike all the other emotions, fear is not quite so attatched to one's facial colour palette. It comes in the form of little flying fear fish. They swim behind cheekbones and eyeballs, between all the other emotions, bobbing to the front of your face and sucking colours out to feed themselves. And of course nobody talks about this, because we're too busy being afraid of these little tiny fish. As they bite the colour away, there's a fuzzy buzz kind of feeling, like when you drink too much coffee and all your brain cells are jumping about sporadically but not really holding one another together into real thoughts. Actually, coffee fuels these fish. And so many people drink far too much coffee. This means everyone stays  half awake, half tired, very very casual, too cool, carefully not seeming very excited about anything, but secretly dying of anticipation and unleashing this in small incredible bursts, on the rare occasions when they feel comfortable enough to say completely and utterly what you really think. This is when the fish fall out of your tongue. It doesn't hurt, and you can't see them, but you can feel something very vulnerable in the air in front of you. It's just the fish. They like it out there. Public air is so much clearer and more comfortable to swim in than the murky air in people's heads. Children unleash hundreds of fish per day. When they're waiting by the supermarket, afraid of that dog off it's leash, yelling 'MUMMY I'M SCARED HELP ME' and hugging the nearest leg, fish are flying all over the carpark. When a scooter flies past an unassuming toddler on the grass, and it screams and carries on like there's no tomorrow (which is true, tomorrow never happens, man. Ask Janis Joplin when you finish this life), fish are flooding out like rain. But then their heads are clear, and they go on being alert and all jolly and dandy and things of that nature for the rest of the day.

Adults don't let this happen so much, they're too polite. Mutually polite, though, so perhaps it's ok. Is it? They sip their coffee and smile and compliment one another, though everybody knows Sally's got just as much green face paint on as Alex does whiskey in his teacup. Very late at night, Alex and Sally get very drunk together, and they let fish fly all over the joint. It's a relatively rare and liberating moment, and they wander why they're not like this all the time. They come very close to admitting their fears of commitement and intimacy, but instead opt for casual sex and scutter away quickly the following morning.
For the rest of the week, Sally takes extra care to apply lots of very thick face paint between her eyebrows. She's been sitting on the couch watching Dr.Phill and pretending not to wait for Alex to text her, or phone her, or telepathically contact her, or send her a message somehow through her daughter's baby monitor. Yes, she's young to be a mother, but she's mostly sensible, except when it comes to relationships. She gets bored of Dr.Phill, because it's a little bit shit, and turns her stereo up very loud, singing along to the White Stripes' 'I've been thinkin' bout my doorbell, when you gonna ring it, when you gonna ring it?'. Fish fly out every so often, because some

of these lines are the things she's been thinking, but has been too afraid to admit to herself, let alone say out loud. She tears up a little when the words to 'Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground' come on, as Jack sings about how 'every breath that is in your lungs is a tiny little gift to me'. She looks over at the tiny child on the other side of the room, and thinks about Alex, and how she wishes all sorts of love could be as simple as the love for a child.
She's spent too long waiting for something to happen, sitting inside the door and eating biscuits instead of just bloody opening it. Everybody knows you can't sit around waiting for things to happen. You have to live a different way. She'd like to meet someone who lives that way. But mostly she'd like to be that way. But then it's five years later, at her daughter's birthday party. The kids are playing kiss chasey in the backyard. They squeal and yell, and again, fish are flying everywhere after each nervous brush on each soft little cheek, very red against such  green young skin. Sally sits by the window and worries that she might be encouraging too many loose feelings. Too much inappropriate freedom. What a silly thought. But she still has it. Why? And when  her daughter comes inside, her cheeks are tomatoes, but she fills them with apples and bananas and strawberries. Sally, on the other hand, hasn't eaten since breakfast. She's been too full of coffee, again. 

By the time Christmas comes around, Sally's face is so translucent that she has to wear a big green grinch mask, and pretend it's all part of a big Christmas joke. Well it kind of turns into one anyway, because she looks hilarious. But then she's too embarrassed of her face, her vulnerable, honestly embarrassingly pale, fading cheeks, that she keeps the ridiculous mask on. She looks on the Internet and finds a place where other adults like her keep their masks on and work in a big tall office building every day. She buys a grey, well ironed business suit and manages her way to the drab old city and up the elevator to the 32nd floor. Every day she goes downstairs to smoke her cigarettes with the other grinch-like busy big business people. The ones with the cleanest suits of all quietly stare at the adults with grouch masks, huddling around the rubbish bins on the other side of the street. The grouches sometimes ask grinchy old Sally if she'll bum them a dart before the more intimidating people get there. She looks at the ground and pretends she can't hear them. She feels a bit guilty but not enough.
 Then on a strangely sunny day in February, she has one of the worst coughing fits of all time, there's blood, and she feels her body falling toward the ground. Siren sounds grow louder as the grouch quickly manages to steal the rest of her cigarettes. Her mask falls into the gutter, and her loose clear skin is exposed, full of thousands of tiny fish. The police arrive and take her to the hospital, then to the White Lady Funeral company, then the pier where each flake of her delicate skin flies off over the ocean, so clear and so thin it can hardly be seen in the wind. The priest tallies up each fish, and writes the humungous figure on a nice recycled piece of paper. He folds it in half three times and places it under her grave stone. Whatever happens, and whoever or whatever looks after her now, will know just how many fears she didn't let go of. Even the priests don't know what happens with all this, but that's why Ani DiFranco sung 'what if God's testing us? What if it's true? What are you going to do?'. The grouch doesn't listen to Ani DiFranco. He finishes Sally's pack of cigarettes, and pretends he's got no control over whether or not he stays green forever. He sews his grouch mask onto his face with his dirty shoelaces.