I have been in Melbourne now for a week. Sitting in the Brunswick Bath spas, I spoke to Jack on the idea of location influencing your writing and he spoke of Graham Greene, travelling for his books. Greene used the vampiric approach to writing, sinking his teeth into different parts of the world.
This is the only story I have written solely on Weebly, my website website. This is me trying to mend bridges. I feel that I went overboard in my criticism of you, Weebly. This is also me passive-aggressively pointing out the fact, Weebly. So yeah, think about that website. I'm trying, what are you doing?
How do I feel being back in Australia? I am going to quote Graham Greene, who is quoting some other dude. Greene said that that 'fellow' said:
“You know what the fellow said – in Italy, for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland, they had brotherly love, they had five hundred years of democracy and peace – and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.”
Honestly, I do not think this will be an enjoyable read. I am going to put it up now, after sitting a few hours and doing it super quick. The writing style is aimed at intentionally sharing my anxiety with you, in a way where I want you, the reader, to feel it and feel like you can easily reciprocate with me, letting me hold some of your own. Tell me a better solution for anxiety and I will consider it.
It is sunny and I am constantly glancing out the window, thinking I need to be outside. I think this story will to continue transform as I come back to it and pick at it from time to time. It is pretty loose but then that is how I've been since being in Melbourne, pretty loose, drinking lots, thinking about anything other than anything else, other, ever, sorry.
- The Egg Party
by The Egg Party
Stray(a) Observations 1:
I'm bleeding, I thought, as I decided to write in monstrous sentences devoid of full-stops because that is how we talk in Australia, unda'stand already will ya, in that deep mumbling way that I still have, the one that my older brother would to criticise me for when I was younger and I would respond, under my breath, that I talk to myself because it is preferable to talking to you, you judgmental fuck, though an aside, I love you bro and I am trying to let that relationship dynamic slip but I'm as successful as I am with my intentions to quit smoking, in that I'm writing and contextualising about the idea of doing it without doing it even though I want to be doing it because I love you.
Stray(a) Observations 2:
I sit smoking beneath the shadow of a church because the barista told me that I need to be four meters away from food and I said to him, well, actually, I haven't brought my measuring tape, sorry, but I'll step four lengths and, woof, the smell of the adjacent bins hits me, full of excessive food waste, of avocados smashed into an atom-thin paste, slathered on a slices of confusing bread, rotting in the morning heat, and so I leave, pouring ceramic into cardboard, because neither the smoke nor the smell satisfies me and I wander off to commit sacrilege and then I think that none are defending smoking here and that makes sense and certainly I don't want to defend it but sometimes, just sometimes, I cannot help myself because it relates to how this country exists, all tucked away from the world, creating bubbles and barriers, designed to protect it's citizens from everything, and I feel so clever as I write, pointing my pen in the air, scribbling in this small notebook but I don't feel like as much of a wanker as I used to, writing in public, because I guess public masturbation is more acceptable here now, as it is in the whole world, and I almost feel like it is some form of flattery but what am I directing my praise at?
Stray(a) Observations 3:
This weekend we drove to Seymour in a hot car full of warm grapes and we smoked in the car and I thought of all those nicotine addicts wandering the streets, kicked out of dining establishments, finding solace in their cars and then tearing around the streets, excited and angry, with durries dangling, increasing the road stress in Melbourne(shit did you know Hoddle street is a mess of high-vis?), and as I am doing the same, wobbling around in the front seat, singing country as we go to the country, I look at the cigarette and I see the little serial number on the thing and I feel the eyes of the government watching so I shout at the cigarette, watch me all youse want but I want youse observers to know that I'm doing alright and you haven't altered me one iota, save my wallet and fragile health status, because I can fuck myself fine enough thank you very much, and you ain't budging me, even in your budgies, and then I suck on the Cigarette.Camera.Thanks.Verily.
Stray(a) Observations 4:
Speaking of people in cars, one thing I have noticed more here than any other country is the amount of people sitting, seats reclined, hiding in their automobiles, tucked down nondescript lane-ways, and I think about what they are hiding from and then realise that it is just them fulfilling their hard-earned epithets, titles of busy, economical, hectic, flat-out, and as I walk past peering in I wonder how they are describing their days before I start to reflect on mine, starting down the path of thinking about what I need to do with myself here and how I will live when I am back in Berlin and, oh man, I am falling into this anxious slump, that feeling residing somewhere in my gut, embedded in my stomach lining but I keep walking because that is one half of my therapists solution to my woes, exercise, tick, meditation, empty box, no tick, not a chance, because if I do both I might get better and then have to admit they are right and I am too proud, and so I keep walking, thinking it is not so bad because I can soon hide inside, looking at the German winter through my window, continuing to write but the sentences can be shorter because holy god their language makes more sense sometimes but maybe it makes more sense in that it works better for interacting with robots and maybe I am a sort of rational robot and so, maybe, in a few months I will understand your perspective, Weebly, but for now, pull your weight, mate.
Stray(a) Observations 5:
I left a lot of stuff around the traps in Melbourne, at homes, in garages, and opening my lost treasure boxes dredges up old writings, where some make me laugh and some make me cry, like this particular piece, written during the first time I traveled by myself, however, I would ask you to keep in mind that the writing is a little sloppy and melodramatic and eerily still on point, but here, written out in italics, are the ruminations of the 20 year old Egg Party, in the deep country of New York State, working with those kids, all hyper, drinking expired chocolate milk, asking me about where I was from and what the hell it was, but the moment I wrote this was at night time and they were all asleep, only me awake on the porch, sitting and rocking, where I just had the insects and silence to fixate on, to process those questions in a more reflective and negative manner,
ON (On Duty) - Awake monitoring cabins, was reading a book, felt like the ground collapsing in front of me. I had to pace to escape the panic stricken feeling[.] I think my interpersonal skills are deteriorating beyond repair. Thank Christ for my loyal friends. Why do I wish to escape things? Socialisation is lost on me. Is it Depression again or am I just this way[? I] think I will get back on anti-depressants in Canada. I think I have lost my sense of humour. Or was I ever 'funny'? I tell a joke & I am too self-conscious to continue. I cannot accept praise. Am I slipping into Mental Illness? This is the right age. I am constantly diagnosing myself with Fuck-Up symptoms which make so much sense to me. I feel I have done nothing & am aiming to achieve nothing. I think need help. Am I being melodramatic?
Stray(a) Observations 6:
So with that in mind I keep going because I know that some things do not change but I wonder if it does not matter because we are adaptable creatures and so, after careful deliberation, I attest to the fact that we can change some aspects of our selves around those immovable traits, cushioning our faults, and that is not so bad, maybe, but maybe not, though I think I see my escapism as not escapism because I have lived for a while in Germany and I am only back in Australia for two weeks so it is reverse escapism and therefore it is not escapism it is more cyclical and I am just running around the world in this deep sweat, still confused, still doing nothing but enjoying it in a way that sometimes I say I am busy only because I want people to think I am interesting so really, anyway, it is not escapism as I determined before and I have changed so there, that is something, ha, I am so smart, fuck me, what a life, holy god, and I am stuck on the cyclonic thinking setting, desperately trying to wash my brain so that it fades to some other colour, and a fact sticks out, that most of my personal pieces are revolving around three ideas or thoughts comes back, over and over again, in this nightmarish Venn diagram but I am okay with it all at the moment because I am surrounded by people I know and love and it is more valuable than any of the small bullshit things that I can list that are wrong with either this country or what is going on in my life right now.
Stray(a) Observations 7:
The photo at the top of this story comes from years ago and the man, one of the best I know, that I am feeding beans to, he was struggling, for it was a dark time for all of us and we all needed to support one another in creative ways and so here I am now, back, about to go to his wedding and I am proud of him and I want to see him happy and so I will get up to the country and celebrate on what will most definitely be an uncomfortably hot day, and I will laugh and I will stand up after a few of those beers, hitting a spoon on an aluminium can, shouting that everyone should listen to me so that I can tell them, and him, that I luv' 'im.