Post-Insecurity.

listening to: skin of the night - m83.

reading: how to be a woman - caitlin moran. (not how it sounds)

watching: the screen.

eating: nothing.

drinking: diet lemonade.

it has been a long-long-time-ago since i've written where everyone can see it.

i just graduated high school, and time already seems to have lost a lot of it's potential authority it could've had over me.

i still sit at home and mix different kinds of leaf beverages with the green leaf, i still sit at my desk and hyperfocus on my tiny handwriting about ancient cretan orgies and i still sing the same array of death cab songs in the shower.

i've found that, due to an unspeakable amount of evidence, the only thing preventing me from feeling comfortable in my skin is the lost treasure that was my sass. the "sass" is a juxtaposition. it's invisible, but it packs a wallop.

you told me you drank beers with him, and kissed him on the rooftops. i was all too familiar of the situation two years ago, when that same boy walked me home, trumpet in hand, and apologised for not being able to have a thing with me.

i never knew his reasoning, but given he swung both ways, that perhaps it was a male kind of time.

the former me would've probably shoved my foot in your ass and told you to take a hike, and come back when you decide that dangling your superiority complex -and slyly throwing your manipulative swings at my only insecurity- were deadbread. and would've promptly fucked off.

now i lie in the middle of the double bed, reading books on feminism, watching ted mosey on my screen, and in my diehard loving way, fantasise about him fighting my battles then resuming work of an architectural kind.

i sit in the wake of a trail of destruction, thinking how carefree i once was, and how in tune with myself i really am.

it's hard leading a double life, and someday (possibly even now) i may come to regret it.

though there is still hope! i found myself trailing around at an open day, all on my lonesome, my '70s woodstock-love-child shirt on, and my scuffed docs, next to a bunch of sniggering sycophants that decided the girl in front of me wearing the jimmy morrison shirt with his penis out was, as i recall "totally gross".

i find it amusing how women like this subject themselves to the tireless, meticulous art of predictability, when all this girl was doing, was proving a controversial moment in pop culture of her idol. i told the pretentious girl this, whose vocabulary didn't span past "debit or credit?" and who probably didn't know what "controversial" meant.

"yah, but like, fat girls shouldn't wear t-shirts like that, because -looks me up and down- it's totally gross."

hm. profound statement. not.

"girl, i'm fat because every time i screw your dad, he feeds me a biscuit."

her look of shock and disgust quickly overtook the rest of her face, as she fought the silence ringing in her ears.

clearly giving up, she walked off. and so in that moment, my heart lilted, and a smile crept across my "bitch" face, as the realisation sunk in that i was still morgan, and that i didn't have that far to go to retrieve the sarcastic whiplash i possessed before i turned into a pawn-of-the-system.

no turning back.

Distant Fields Of Green.

listening to: the beast - angus and julia stone.

reading: the true history of the kelly gang - peter carey.

watching: that 70s show; episode "the promise ring"

eating: air.

drinking: water.

they've branded me with the mark of the number of the beast. "12"

because that's what two sixes make, right? why wish for a third?

i'm scared of seeing you, because that big old smile is all you wore.

and now it's turned to a scowl of envy and a back turned; waving off heat waves of hate.

her hair is so l-o-n-g, it covers her completely, and in an act of confusion i laughed.

so we have our fingers crossed with our business sleeves, and we're carefully glueing in our newspaper cutouts.

my name is curled with dead sunflowers and english moor poppies, and small letters tell me to "colour the small one", but i still haven't quite figured out what that means.

a tiny blurred girl, dressed like a lady in her mamma's jewels and her red shoes on, in a dusty sepia field trading roses for guns, and a heart full of lust; to kill what she wants the most.

and all the buttons and ribbons and zippers and newspaper cutouts that i've been glueing all along, have consumed me as a person, and taken my soul, so now i'm made out of all the things i've been dying to collect.

in the oddest way.

I Was The Walrus.

listening to: mother - john lennon.
reading: nothing.
watching: nothing.
eating: air.
drinking: pear nectar.

i am snuggling into the sound of silence. filling my air with the breath from your lungs, the stale left-behinds of your soul in this tiny, compact room, and i wish your quirky laugh was here to fill this space.
despite the emptiness and cold air of my house after you left, i'm almost getting used to the dysfunctional way in which it's working, my room full of musical tunes, some chink, so i go into other rooms to make them work.

you said you're impressed with the way i handle things, the way that i throw maturity around as if it's an inflatable balloon, but i just desperately want to get it out of my hands so the static doesn't mess up my hair.
but your noogies do that anyway, you silly man in the dark purple suit.
if i were to reveal anything, it would be that i am not mature, i am not brave, and all i can do is sit here, with the tears falling onto my jean shorts, and the pear nectar dribbling down my chin, thinking how much tougher it could be, and how pathetic it is, that i can't handle what i have now.

but you make me happy, none the less. i feel your warmth, and i can hear your heartbeat, the only one i can listen to, it's deep, soft thud, not a tinny whomping like a guinea pig. and that's what is the best. i love you the way i love sparkly toes, the way i love glistening sweatdrops on noses, the way i love banana crisps, the way i love the smell before it rains, the way i love you with all the pieces that got thrown away by some other unimportant being.

you and her combined make up my confidence, my happiness and my soul.
you balance me out with your differences, you are the other two thirds of me, you make me who i am.
and the rest are just mortar that fill in the cracks of us three bricks.

Watching Me Burn.

listening to: four in the morning - gwen stefani.
reading: the true history of kelly and the gang.
watching: nothing.
eating: air.
drinking: fanta spider.

it was all so sudden. i just couldn't fathom it.
i was going to see your face in a week, your laugh would be right there, your smile, your tiny hands and your freckles directly beside me, linking arms and whispering, just like how i remember it.
it was already a bad day, i was already disoriented.
and suddenly it appears. the message on that social networking site. the most random occurance. the most brutal and direct confrontation that i had experienced since march this year.
there was your schoolID, looking at me with those same freckles and smile, but you were a ghost.
it was your mother. and she had come to be the bearer of bad news.
now it's united all our friends, together we stand, but we've all fallen separate.
nobody knows how to deal with it. knowing you won't be there anymore to shed light on situations.
all i can think about was the last thing you said to me. you were so right. i was so wrong.
wrong for not having seen you sooner. just one last time.
i wanted to hold you one last time, your cuddles were always the greatest.
even though you're gone now, i am positive that you will always be there in spirit.
i think of you every time i bust open a bag of rice wheelies.
you are in the palm of his hand now, babe.

i will never forget you.

Time Is Running Out.

listening to: cool - gwen stefani.
reading: nothing.
watching: michael jackson's this is it.
eating: banana paddlepop.
drinking: water.

a passing memory of you went by in a flash, the force of the fragments of image squealing their way through time and space, before they were gone; and there was absolute silence.
i used that small f-r-a-c-t-i-o-n of time to blank my mind, and think of nothing.
just white behind my retinas, swaying with my body a little, just to calm me down.

it's all over now. you aren't special. you aren't important. and you most certainly aren't a part of me. i've filled that space where your soul used to lie with candy bracelets, freshly discovered eateries, and a thriving sense of self. the two people who came after you are now first, and they have worked together to rebuild their web of love over the abyss that was the s p a c e you left.

i've delved into the cracks, and searched the dim lights, the rotting gutters where the prostitutes are slumped against walls, the rats chewing on five day old bread, the place where the people never see the sun, and only the suggestive lights of the district. and for what it's worth.

the other side WAS much greener.

an abstract painting which was supposed to resemble breasts, just a contortion of the only way i know how to describe that colour; the infamous dinosaur green. the eligible standard tone which is the world over associated with those prehistoric reptilius. searching for gifts to match each companion is assuredly my hardest task, but i find it worth it in the end, when each item screams the name of them, until my ears bleed from the pressure.

but i love you all. i miss you all. i need you all.

Dark Moves Of Love.

listening to: science fiction, double feature - rocky horror picture show OST.
reading: john - cynthia lennon.
watching: nothing.
eating: air.
drinking: peach juice.

so i sit here in the middle of my room, eyes closed, my whole world spinning, waiting for you to come and lie next to me. but that isn't going to happen. not for a long while.
i can feel fireworks exploding behind my retinas, my toes fuzzing and disintergrating, their granules falling to the floor, i can feel my lips slowly moving further and further apart until they're completely detached from my face.

i miss your gentle laugh, your warm lap, your eyes when they race around the room with obvious uncertainty. i miss getting up at ten o'clock, finding out you've already been awake for three hours, and have been eating and watching me in my slumber for most of that time. i miss the way your hair meshes with your eyelashes, i miss your smile, i miss the way you warm my soul.

i could never thank her enough. sometimes i hate her so much because she talks about how much better than me she is, and i know it's true. but sometimes, just sometimes, i want to be that beautiful skinny girl who has everything going for her. the girl that's good at everything, the girl who doesn't always speak her mind, the girl who knows when to say when. but that isn't me. and i can only dream of such a girl.

i fall back into my reality, which isn't realistic at all. my door inhales and exhales like a living creature, and the floor compresses and releases in different sections to create something similar to an optical illusion. i breathe in and the drum solo that leads into the chorus fills my sensories, until i'm a mere blur.
i can hear the screeches of the guitar in the back ground, and the demonic voice that yells "one of these days i'm going to chop you up into little pieces" and i reply with, "you already have".

and suddenly everything makes sense. it all clicks together. and i realise something that was fairly obvious before. i am home. when i hear my music, everything is laced together in a necklace of raw experience, and i feel myself give way to the pure genius.

this is reality. like grandad always said: "....i'm there."

Dear Gramps.

listening to: the messiah will come again - roy buchanan.
reading: a text from vaile.
watching: pablo the little red fox; season 1; episode 8 - bathtime.
eating: chocolate.
drinking: water.


hey there granddad,
this is my letter of confession, recognition and not-very-insightful commentary to you.

when you passed, all my dad was able to give me was your shaving brush.
he said it wouldn't come of much use to me.
that was around the time when i desperately wanted to grow a moustache.
but don't worry, i used it on my legs once for kicks.

late at night i recall you sneaking downstairs to drink the pickle juice out of the olive jar.
but finding my spindly, awkward four year old body already kneeling on the counter sipping it up with mum's "dawn of the eagle" teaspoon.
you would sit in your red leather chair, and talk to me about the isle of the dogs, where you grew up as a boy, telling me the tales of you;
the extortionist, the gambler, the drinker, the lover, the leaver, the miner, the sailor, the waiter.
and even though all of these things added up to a completely imperfect specimen...
i thought you were god.

your speckled black and white hair, your dusty old off-red boxing gloves, your sideways smile and the way you seemed to know everything i was thinking, even when i gave no hint at all.
the way everybody treated you, in retrospect, seems largely unfair. and i'm sorry to say at that particular moment in time i was too naive to do anything about it.

the day when i came home, after a brief (disheartening) encounter with the irish kind in dymocks, i saw your picture on my mantelpiece, and sat there holding you, humming your favourite wishbone ash song, and watching my toes curl up on the carpet.

you're a smoker, you're a joker and you're a midnight toker.
even when you were completely offchops, you made me smile harder than anybody else could.
i'm sorry that you aren't here anymore, and it hurts me that i didn't get to send you off with all these thoughts and that painting i did that you really liked.

you've left the biggest imprint on the smallest girl.
you may have left me, but those tiny shards of those tiny memories that we had together assemble themselves to create an unfinished masterpiece.

and that's the way i would have wanted-needed-loved-done it.