settle, petal

Today's air was thick and the water running from the tap strangely warm. I had a relaxing day. I scrubbed myself with spirulina and honey, I drank my cocktail of veges mindfully, I ran without music, I spent time with family and I melted away into a book. I like to commit to a book intensely so it's hard when I want to read but aren't quite collected enough to propel myself as much as I'd prefer, so that's why I haven't read as much this year. The last couple of days I finally feel a little more settled. So caught up in the fierce, dominating mentality of the fitness disposition I've been harping on about, I've completely neglected the gentle side of a book, a lit candle and a mind ready to surrender. It feels good to be back. 

"I grew bewildered: who was talking? about what? and to whom?My mother had disappeared; not a smile or trace of complicity. I was an exile. And then I did not recognize the language. Where did she get her confidence? After a moment, I realized: it was the book that was talking. Sentences emerged that frightened me: they were like real centipedes; they swarmed with syllables and letters, span out their diphthongs and made their double consonants hum; fluting, nasal, broken up with sighs and pauses, rich in unknown words, they were in love with themselves and their meanderings and had no time for me: sometimes they disappeared before I could understand them; at others, I had understood in advance and they went rolling on nobly towards their end without sparing me a comma. These words were obviously not meant for me. The tale itself was in its Sunday best: the woodcutter, the woodcutter's wife and the daughters, the fairy, all those little people, our fellow-creatures, had acquired majesty; their rags were magnificently described, words left their mark on objects, transforming actions into rituals and events into ceremonies."

- Words, Jean Paul Sartre

ground.

what a crazy few months; it's been a time impregnated with a physical return to my routine of busy days but i've been falling and rising on an internal roller coaster every day. few months ago america made me realise how much of my health i take for granted. like a biological lotto we inherit just through the right of being born, my days had become a blur of substance abuse, lack of sleep, inconsistency and imbalance, and complete lack of conscious thought. for someone always boasting (albeit quietly) on about my sense of self, i sure had been ignorant with health. sure i was vegetarian (though that's no representation of health at all) and ate salads for days but i wasn't particularly partial to demanding physical exercise (try telling 2012 jess to go to the gym everyday) and had enough to organise let alone my sleep and diet; those things will take care of themselves was always my natural path of thought; 'you seem healthy, you'll be fine!'. so things started to unfold once i started giving a shit, the domino effect tumbled and my entire basis of existing seemed to be at fault. my diet wasn't terrible but not brilliant, how was i supposed to cram maca, macqui, spirulina, chlorophyll, acai, camu, cacao and all other superfood goddesses all in the one smoothie? how was i supposed to create regular sleeping times when work and uni got in the way, how was i supposed to motivate myself to wake up early just to sit there, think positive thoughts and practice self-love? when would i have time to do not just weight training but yoga, cardio, relaxing walks and any other kind of movement? how can i have the muscles of a macro counter, flexibility of a yogi and mindset of a nutritionist all at once?

what the frickety frack is health and what's the organic, refined sugar, gluten, dairy and artificial additive free recipe for it? 

it's been the most tiring journey ever but i'm finally being responsible for what's entering my body. my immune system has crashed, my skin become a toxin wasteland, my energy levels ride an elevator from experiment to experiment, my hormones seem to have hormones of their own and i honestly can say i might be happier not being aware of how metabolism works, why yellow #5 is shit and spending that extra 10 minutes scrubbing myself with a body brush every time i'm desperate for a quick shower...but happy only in ignorance and well, that doesn't really count. i'm a skeptic so when i hear these amazing benefits that will heal, replenish and nourish...at the end of the day all i'm wondering is do i feel great cause of the green smoothie swishing about my insides or cause i realised my undies match my bra today? the answer is i don't know. my health has always been on the alright side and so the comparable context doesn't provide enough of a contrast but what i can say is that these days i'm addicted to the pheromones rush after exercise, my energy levels could squat heavy if they wanted and my minds constantly being cut open like a ripe watermelon (and there's just no feeling like wave jumping through new info and philosophies). i'm like an open-mouthed child gobbling and trying to chew my way to understanding. learning about the body is endlessly fascinating and we're all our own health experiments in the making.

so as i munch on kale chips and think about how great they'd be paired with some czech beer, i can't help but wonder how far ahead i'll find some way of moving toward health that feels healthy and becomes as naturally integrated into my life as my new cranberry, coconut and lime candle. all i know is that this is pretty dang tough and rips you apart again and again, but i've decided too many yesterdays ago to abandon any chance of feeling better/better than better from my insides. determined for health and defining it not as a matter of willpower but self-love.  

Stricken.

Excerpts of young people's voices across Sydney:

"I saw a dry and dead environment.. The beaches and the air were destroyed by pollution and people were dying fast...There were guns and fighting going on all over the world. Most people were poverty stricked and were forced to live on the streets... The world to me wouldn't be worth living in..."
- Craig, 15

"I see the environment in the future as a false representation of the real thing...Forests that have been knocked down are made into forests of fibre glass and cement"
- Anthony, 16 

"no trees...all grey...smog...pollution...unhappiness..false love...Discontent between families.. Very rich people. ...Famine takes hold of unlucky poor people. ...Robotics... Polluted water and air...Pure water and oxygen for sale..War....No more world."
- Michelle, 16

Voice like honey.

'Home'(Michael Bublé)

Another summer day
Has come and gone away
In Paris and Rome
But I wanna go home
Mmmmmmmm

May be surrounded by
A million people I
Still feel all alone
I just wanna go home
Oh, I miss you, you know

And I’ve been keeping all the letters that I wrote to you
Each one a line or two
“I’m fine baby, how are you?”
Well I would send them but I know that it’s just not enough
My words were cold and flat
And you deserve more than that

Another aeroplane
Another sunny place
I’m lucky, I know
But I wanna go home
Mmmm, I’ve got to go home

Let me go home
I’m just too far from where you are
I wanna come home

And I feel just like I’m living someone else’s life
It’s like I just stepped outside
When everything was going right
And I know just why you could not
Come along with me
This was not your dream
But you always believed in me

Another winter day has come
And gone away
In either Paris or Rome
And I wanna go home
Let me go home

And I’m surrounded by
A million people I
Still feel alone
And let me go home
Oh, I miss you, you know

Let me go home
I’ve had my run
Baby, I’m done
I gotta go home
Let me go home
It'll all be all right
I’ll be home tonight
I’m coming back home

Price of Invulnerability.

One of my favourite ted talks.

Here.

+ Family
+ Many mugs of hot tea
+ 8 pillows on one bed

+ Home cooked meals
+ Jet lag
+ Winter
+ Travel bug bites
+ Time for books
+ Uni
+ Work
+ Post-travel blues
+ Comfort/dullness

- Netflix
- Foreign accents
- Summer
- Living from a suitcase
- Someone to cuddle in bed
- Excessive leisure time
- Friends of '13

- Money
- The new and exciting

From far away.

If you could leave one message on the Berlin Wall, what would it be?

extinguished

time is tired;
i've been breathing through burnt lungs
travelling an airway of ashes
and empty cherry trees
waiting for a pause or go.
i'm built on a marathon of running tears
with no side street joints to rest and recover
mouth dry, body thirsty
i licked the glue and left you a post-it,
let it attach like mould 
and rolled away on a wheel of realities
quiet, and caught by nothing
i felt like the runway before flight
knees knocking, wrists cracking
never inhaled this deeply
what did i write, what did i say
i never remember but i'm chewing on dates
spitting out weeks and never deciding on endings.

this one's left

hi love,

i don't have any coherence in my thoughts in the present. i don't really remember the last time i've accessed new words and thoughts worthy of keeping; brain food at a blank i feel a little internally miserable. how surreal it is that we can sink into the antonym of our ideals. how many times have i repeated that i refuse to be an object subject to the sidelines of maintaining a home. the invisible role of women; i rebel it everyday  yet here i am. sweeping thoughts over the door frame, frying my will and slipping over the greasy remains. jokes and one-offs translate strangely into realities we never asked for. a single fortnight before stagnancy is expired. comfort is no quick sand and the solution is no longer to stand still. comes and goes, comes and goes, if i could choose, i'd erase the idea of leaving places, we're just moving toward new ones. does leaving define what staying is? then does staying mean you don't have to miss anyone? at least, for a little while. i've learnt recently missing someone doesn't require their absence, missing is wanting (needing) somebody and knowing you can't keep them all the time. (at least i think that's why i constantly miss you even when i'm right by you.) my soul is so spilled and i've a fortnight to collect the splashes beneath shoes that have walked across me these past seven months. 

sticky, tired, dancing. 

Crumbs.

Like crumbs in between the keys of pressing fingers
We shook like the belly of a man
filled with the sun
of smiles as bright as this child’s joy
Curved in lines on a steeper climb
made it to the top, touched you
and ran shrieking
somersaulting
dis remembering
what
way
glares

down
fell onto flatness
tumbled onto a runway
with floors dropping models 
plunging us
leg before leg, we tired
we shook
and rode his feet
saw the ground tremble
like the hairs we planted
in the garden of our hopes
and left those crumbs to the mouths of others

Swallow.

Here it come, that heavy love

When we're feeling adrift
Isn't it so funny we seek
A message in the bottle
That pleads S.O.S
With no expectation of a cure
That instead, all we ever wanted to know
Was that someone else felt the same

I know what you mean
You know what I mean
but two fists don't fit within a chest
so give up darling, let it go
We've only ever been the side effects
Of life's happiness.

little kite

remember when they found you crying with a string tied around your neck
and they didn't understand, cut the string and placed you in a white room and robe
when all you wanted was to fly like a kite in the wind that wouldn't carry you
remember how you couldn't find a hand so you tied yourself to a tree
and how that branch felt strong like you wish you could be
so you ran and ran and ran and leaped one leg before another
felt the wind rush into your face, air into your lungs
never knowing that even suspended in air, everything still touched you
made you realise your heart was in fact, vast not vacant
and the world contained no waiting rooms.  

Twister.

Mouths of broken tongue
collapsed beneath
a bowl poured full of saliva
that tasted the birth
of an anticipation and numbing
said taste my taste buds
cause they’ve been running
under the stream of soft yoghurt
and waves of French
said I know you want me
and Cheshire smiled
moist glint in your eye
flashed, flashed, purred
of struggled inhale
warmth against walls
leaned upon arrows
of tough tug-o-war
and smelt the near flesh
panting, bursting
a volcanic rush
and those lava envelopes
gulped and swallowed
a mouth of running nectar
said taste my
sticky breath, sticky breath
with glue between your teeth
stuck me to you
a handlebar of sugar cocktails
a cavity of delight
a fight of pillow tongue

please be alive

i keep asking strangers "what are you most scared of?" and i've heard (monsters, heights, spiders, clusters of holes, pedophiles, being attacked by a shark, death of parents, storms, enclosed spaces, God, guns, betrayal, love) the end/death, but my loves, none of that scares us. death isn't terrifying, not living is.  

the worst thing

I want to sleep naked, feel bare.

the worse thing I've ever done was when I was on the bus with my friend sitting in front of me, and she had a little bear plush, and I wanted it, so when she tossed it up, I caught it and hid it with me. but it smelt of her and my guilt, so on my walk home I threw it away. that reminds me of today when in the city of San Cristobal, a child tugged at my bag strap and shook necklaces hung from his arm. he spoke Spanish. i didn't, but we didn't need a language. beads clattered like bones collapsing as he shook them until my answer sounded empty like his stomach. the third world tastes devastating. from the limbless man moaning against a wall to the silent women weaving textiles in the market, I heard only exhausted despair. like animals, they cry only for survival. let us eat, drink, rest. let us live. yet equipped with the generosity of my situation, i had my mouth full of labour and bags brimmed with sleepless nights and rough skin on sore hands. i had the 'wants' of a gluttony so fierce I terrified myself. yet there remains poverty, silently suffering, violently struggling, pleading like those dark brown eyes. lo siento, mi amore. less is not more.

from outer space

Listening to this song again and it sounds like it's been singing the words all wrong. (How) The facts are there. The fact is that when people tell you to count, you assume one and one is two, the fact is when you're tired, you  need rest. The fact is distance is an ocean, distance is not a space your feet can comprehend. Distance is being alone. So it seems silly that for a moment you tasted like a birthday party. Silly that for a moment I thought I had found a way to rest within another pair of rib cages. That for a moment I thought one and one could feel like one. And like a drunken person singing terribly gaily (with emphasis on the 'terribly'), I sunk in and out of the wine that was you. 

i'm sorry i ever walked close because distance knows me more than closeness does

what is this?
what would you call it? 

an "ascension"
but even then we couldn't define what 'more' would be, and we would never have slammed the brakes though we saw the signs, and the traffic lights flashed red like hearts under attack. and your sour aftertaste was the taste of grapes that hadn't ripened, and i wanted your flesh to be sweet even if not for my own mouth. 

so i'm sorry (for the audacity)
i never meant any of the year that has passed us by
of text messages left waiting, and stories i couldn't find an ear for
of a together i couldn't be there for
what comes next i do not know but you can't bend my reality
i've got a fire in me that can't afford the price tag of waiting
and what we wished couldn't be conceived
so burn through and create what you now can
because i didn't grant you that chance,
you did

P.S

(mermaids never kick, because mermaids know how to swim)

free things are good.

I have a red plastic cup 

left in my room by a friend

and in it, rain moistened dirt

scooped with a twig

from the chilly courtyard

of stephens-whitney

and in it, incense

gifted as samples 

from a place they call 

lotus

and did you know

its roots begin in mud

its stem in water

its flower in sun

that lit the fire 

that burned a smell:

warm & wonderful.

Run deep, run wild.

After tears, there's always that gasp of air that tastes like relief, and boy, does it taste fresh. My fondness for crying has always been rooted in an attempt to rest and react not of my own accord. To simply, feel. To know this, in this moment, is real because I...didn't consciously partake in it. But of course that's nonsense because I did choose to engage and I did choose to be empathetic, saddened and perhaps, hurt. I chose to feel and to express it with tears. So I'm unafraid to say I look forward to things that I know will make me want to tremble, and contemplate to what degree my noisy expressions will irritate my company. I enjoy the clumsy desperation of seeking tissues from strangers to dry my face, am enchanted by the first tear that draws a path upon my skin that the others sometimes follow and am delighted when I become so overwhelmed I sound like an animal beneath a butcher's cleaver. I see strength in crying. I see the audacity to feel and be felt by the world that surrounds us. I see a tremendous wonder in becoming a feeling being. I see outreached hands for a perplex world that never held ours once. The world becomes a state of dripping fog that cools the bare bodies lying on beaches, and moistens the dirt to become a worm's paradise, and falls upon our spread tongues. 

How thirsty we are, and how tasty our tears. 

Waiting Room.

The day I found out you were dying
was at the age of young
and mama came home smelling like chlorine
with salt dried in falling lines down her face

Those lines formed a web
that preyed on my fear, they told me
“it won’t be okay”
yet even then you had rock sugar in your pockets

I walked toward you,
paper gown hanging like
weak armed children on monkey bars
and you chuckled and waved me closer

Bounced the ice cream from my hand
and sunk your gums into it
said “I am okay”
and pouted your sagging lips to make me laugh

The second time I found out you were dying
was at the age of yesterday
and I couldn't smell mama
but I smelt rock sugar

She said “I am sick”
with a cold that seeps through
the veins veering toward her heart
“it won’t be okay”

It snowed again today
white as the hair of your head
crispy as the skin of your chest
that cradles a heart so ready for cold

The day I found out you were dying
I realised you’d been living
more than any of us had been living
and dying less than any of us are dying

The day I found out you were dying
I refused to cry
because it will never be okay,
but it will be more.

x

Lusty Lavendar.

This week America is: loving strangers, loving friends, daily alcomohol, purple/magenta/halfshave hair (they call me the mermaid), 10 page papers, Vancouver on saturday, zumba zumba zumba, ISEP scholarship of $5000, rekindling love of earrings, bitten bruises, mama's package of asian goodies, night owl day owl, lack of leisure reading, dayquil/nyquil S.O.S, reminiscing aussie music.

Raw living.

the expression of you,

lover

is bitten with wonder
and suddenly,
I hear songs that are made of dance
like how grown men want to
and they blush
a blush so rosy

I taste birthday cakes
and shot glasses that tinkle
with hundreds and thousands

the floor, speckled
with the tremble of my excitement
walks like a lake of nails
ripped from my own finger tips
and turned into a powder crushed beneath me

swept you
in currents like the water of my heart

no more
she said
you must surface now

can you float?
there is air here

hush,

let your little ear talk
because we all know
what comes will

go

but never this
which is the core...
the heart, yours
will know when you are alone
though always alone
and smile at such a simplicity

(all I must say is 
forget perfection)

move
feel
action
grasp

dance with this

welcome to your first day of living
surreal as it is real
this is yours to create.

Stationary.

Meanwhile, my brain lies on the desk
like a paperweight.
Let it hold things down in there,
as it likes to do.
Out here the body is devoted
only to its desire.

—Aleida Rodríquez, from “The Return” in Garden of Exile

What can you 'ear?

I enjoy the things that stir chaos in me. Aren't the scrawlings above fantastic? Beethoven. I've spent the night listening to MAGGOT BRAIN, why does it always get better. I wish I could capture the powerful momentum it carries or at least swim in it, maybe even drown a little. Blup Blup Blup. NOxygen!

I/O.DEA

It is a very familiar idea to me that the existence of other people seems almost ridiculous. We are so egocentric, so entirely focused on drawing buckets of thoughts and experiences from the well that reflects one face and one face only. No quietness illuminates as much as this - forget, no (know?!) not forget but never got. Y'know there are entire oceans tumbling still. How can something be when it is not me, when it is not even relevant to me? I am the centre of a world of alien beings of skin. Greenish. Why should I care? Why should it even exist?! What is the 'it'? Do you only come out when you've got the it'ch? Funny thing, you. Perhaps this is the reason for our worldly struggles. Why not contaminate more and more of the infinite with ourselves. Hah. Our; Oh you are... (Not sure/shore.) Problem of the other, or problem is the other. Anyway. The encounter transforms within ink. The character, the actor, the kind of person that is personally personable because s/he is not a person. (Mhmm, smell the dust of consciousness. It was in the attic.) I welcome them inside me because they're residents. I don't mind - joking - they're the ones without a mind. I sought to plant roots and ends but shame, it doesn't grow. The sea shell business has taken off though. Won't you buy a seashell off me/she who sells them? 

FACEME.

Seeitall/Seattle.

Hey lover,

As I sit here developing an affection for instant coffee (I'm sorry), I've come to realise that I need to worry about things like how if I don't have my drink bottle, I don't drink water and if I don't order salad then I don't eat vegetables the whole day and how if I don't wake up in time, I miss class. Little things, little things. The coming of glorious independence has been suiting me quite well. Anyway. I feel like I should talk about concrete things such as what I've occupied myself with for the last 18 days. 

Let's go! (Inclusive of photos, captions and everything like a real travel blogger. Joy.)

One of the buildings at Central. Snow borders the footpaths and the trees look like they're growing spines of cold, white bone. It's a quiet city and such a whispering winter experience. I've been dusted with snow, chilled till my ears hurt, and filled with such wonderful thoughts since beginning here. Thank you PHIL358 - Existentialism, you're the bed I rest in.  

Celebrating multiculturalism in true Aussie spirit. Dorms + fairy lights = yes. Also, 2 gallons (4L) of wine + goats cheese rolled in cranberries and cinnamon = orgasmic.

 The famously repulsive 'Gum Wall' in Seattle. The gum dribble to the right corner is fantastic.

The original Starbucks. I doubt they're doing the same seasonal specials over in Oz but vanilla spice latte, let me take you to a permanent home fit with a tastebuddy.

The Pacific Science Centre had a glasshouse where butterflies flutterby and tease you with gentleness. They land in your hair and everything. Quite lovely despite the constructed atmosphere. 

 

A bizarre house of Dick & Jane's. They've made it their life effort to create a house as an ongoing art project. It's the most ridiculously wonderful thing.

 In true US spirit we played a little bball. 

Otherwise, I've been doing brain cell cardio in my classes and dilly dallying with strangers that are quickly becoming an actual part of my life.

Physical things, physical experiences.

Until next time kids, I miss all your faces muchly,
J.

Syncopation.

This is fucking enchanting, my insides are hyperventilating.  

Plane Jane.

Hey there, reporting from a little city they call Ellensburg where there is so much quiet and crunchy, crunchy snow. 

1. Soda is not a substitute for water. 
2. Smoking weed during the 5 minute break in a philosophy class is hilarious.
3. Living as a minimalist is an option. So is sleep. 
4. I'm capable of missing people, actually, I've rather a talent for it. Your letter is the best.
5. The standard system is shit.
6. I already own half of the required texts for existentialism #let'sgetsartred.
7. American words sound curly like smiles.
8. My dear Andrea, I can't believe we're brushing shoulders.
9. What Angela Lansbury said (in a melodic manner).
10. My aortic pumps would be terrible as drums - da DA da dadada DADA da.

Well, this all made a lot of sense aye? 

Bye, I'll write properly next time, promise!

Practising apples.

I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong.

- Jane Austen