beast bees, bead lords, sweet cakes, maste lakes, O ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma

raaa. why can i not just... DO things. i feel like withdrawing from the world for a long long time. i feel like painting. i feel like screaming. i feel like six weeks is an eternity. i feel like all i eat is bread. i feel like a failure when i procrastinate. i feel like i've been here before. i feel like getting drunk, all the time.
i am in love with dan deacon.

and now. this is something i wrote for class.

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“You do not have a visa.”
Who was this person, saying this most strange, ridiculous thing at me? Do I really need a visa to get from Central to Strathfield?
Let’s get some context happening. I’m on the train to work. Just an average, graffiti encrusted – no, you know what, I shouldn’t say encrusted, because that has somewhat of a negative connotation to it, something about the “crust” part, crusts get such a tough break, and to be honest I really quite like a lot of graffiti and of course I get that it’s territorial and anarchic and maybe even post-colonial and we’ve all seen that picture of the guy throwing a bunch of flowers like it’s a grenade, so let’s go back for a second – graffiti covered carriage, and a graffiti covered girl strides up to me while I’m in the process of lazing. One leg stretched out on the seat in front of me and one leg bent. If you picture that properly, I’m sitting exactly how the sign in front of me pictures I properly shouldn’t. I’m not sitting like this to be inconsiderate but because it’s seriously all kinds of uncomfortable to ride public transport and not pretend to be the coolest person in the world: I’m too cool for you to talk to me. Way to cool for you. Ok. And you’re too cool for me as well with your pretty white headphones, I can hear your Bad Romance and your Tales of Brave Ulysses and, well, right now I can’t top that because I’ve been recently into psy-trance so hard that I don’t care if no one else understands but the point is that at the very least we can wordlessly acknowlegde that we’re both much too cool for the remote prospect of an interaction to occur.
Now, I’m exceptionally lazed. Legs out like I already mentioned, shoulders slouched, arms poised at the very freest most heightened moment of an outward flail. Perfection. But here comes this girl, walking toward me, calling my cool bluff, and she’s speaking nonsense about visas.
“What do you mean I don’t have a visa.” I’m actually trying not to talk to her like she’s crazy, because despite all evidence heretofore produced, she’s wearing some pretty cute black and white striped boots and there’s a sparkle in her eye and I just don’t find that those two things corroborate the crazy-girl hypothesis. Perhaps that’s a ridiculous naïvety.
“I mean, you need a visa to move anywhere. Permission to go places, permission to leave this one. I’m the inspecting officer, I’ll be assessing your situation and I’ll only be taking reasonable bribes. I quite like your hat.”
“Thanks, so do I,” I mutter, suspicious.
“Hmm. How insolent. I think it’s best you come with me,” she says with a grin, clasping my arm like a mother clasps her child in a crowd. She’s talking too fast for me to get in any words of protest, dragging me through carriage after carriage. Other passengers stare at us, drawn out of their morning commuter coma as the girl’s speech gets louder and more excited.
“I know that you’re pretending like you didn’t expect something like this to happen. But I’ve seen you catch this train every day at the same time, and then eight hours later you get back on this same train, and you read a book and you laze with your feet up, and did you know that it was the same train? Because it is, we never leave. And now, you might think that I’m jumping to conclusions about you, but trust me, I have an eye for these kinds of things, and you’re definitely someone who doesn’t really want to move anywhere in particular. I mean, you’re quite comfortable doing the exact same thing every day, so of course you were going to encounter us at some point-”
“What do you mean I don’t want to move, I just have a job, that’s all. And I go to it every day, that’s normal-”
“Ok, sure, sure, it’s you’re job, fine. But what’s with your face? Your face is so bored, man, all the time. I’ve seen that face a lot on you, and you don’t do anything about it. But, oh, oh no, look, don’t think I’m being critical or anything, who wants to move anywhere, really? Who would do anything, or change anything if they didn’t have to? I just thought perhaps you might like to see what it can be like to live in a place where absolutely no one ever moves anywhere. Because it just might be your thing.”

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it's not finished.