Opression is a hefty subject

If you were to ask my school what it thinks of itself you would get a very superficial answer that would undoubtedly be a lie. My school is much like a teenage girl. Hidden self esteem issues, blurred by speeches made of false vanity and egotistical proclamations, the same way a girl my age would wear a dress short even though she feels uncomfortable. My school is constantly asking itself whether it’s good enough. Good enough to compete, good enough to be a school, good enough for anything it can get its hands on. I know this because I am who it asks. Every time I am given a small piece of paper for a few minutes of brooding in a stuffy classroom during lunch it asks me. It asks me whether its good enough. The glasses is cloudy and it can’t quite see so it has to ask. I don’t know what it aspires to be good enough for, I haven’t gotten that far yet, but I’m sure I’ll get there eventually.
Maybe my school would be a little more confident if it took of the glasses that cloud it’s vision much more than they correct it. I don’t know, but then it might see its wonderful faults. The fact is as much as my school is ambitious, it is also lazy. As lazy as me. Work can only be done in specific conditions and even in those conditions it’s a hit and miss situation. We won’t work when it rains. We don’t like the cold. If its too hot we will bathe in the fountains. If the leaves are falling from the trees we will play. If need be we will do a math equation. As much as I complain my life with this school is a comical one. Irregular and dazed. It’s like a melancholy romance, not fated, yet still somewhat interested. I feel quite bad sometimes because I make it seem like the school and I are enemies. We aren’t. We simply bicker, still quite good friends, but with a habit for arguing. We are not incapable of getting along, we just don’t see eye to eye on some subjects.
It’s not that my school needs attention or anything of that sort, it just gives a damn. Too many damns. More damns than it ought and it occasionally gets tired and has to sit down. It is at times like this that I am at my least intolerable. I don’t think it’s my school’s fault. It was created on the foundations of a society based on oppression and first world problems. Still, it is tedious, if not painful, to be a part of something so concerned with its own reflection. Vanity is easy, under confidence is hard.
I scare my school. I scare it because I am not who I am meant to be. I am meant to be just another faceless student, blinded by either ruthless ambition or a need to impress, but I’m not. My school proudly advertises its values, I see them everyday. I’m sure it doesn’t recognise what they represent. I’m sure they only see words that have become so clichéd and over used that they no longer even resemble what they might of once. My school is one of the many vultures feeding from the beaten remains of once noble words like they are still trophies of honour. They see these words not as the scraps of ragged meat still clinging to the bones of long dead lions, but as if the lions still alive and sharing their flesh with smiles to go, but then there are always those people who don’t want to take part in the unconscious savagery of the vultures. People like me, who see past the honour boards and the awards, I threaten what they hold dear and I do it without even working very hard. It’s only now that my school realises how fragile their precious system is.
The best oppressors are those who don’t know they are oppressive; you can’t rebel against a system that doesn’t realise it’s own faults.
All throughout history people have been oppressed, looked down upon and scolded for looking up, but on these occasions and long periods of time it was often obvious. The oppression was dealt with using guns, bombs and insistent shouting, now all we know is text books, price tags and advertisements. Our society has us believing that we’re the best the human race is ever gonna be, but really we’re just the middle men of history. Corporations and companies have us buying stuff we don’t want with money we don’t have to impress people we don’t even like, believing that we’re still going to turn out to be rock gods and movie stars. We have no Great Depression, or any Great War, we’re just sitting here with our first world problems wondering why we feel so bad. We get only these occasional little snapshots, brief ideas that never go very far and even when they do their too loud to be listened to. We think, we bathe, we eat, we sleep, we work till we die. At least when there’s a gun in you’re face you know whose team you’re on.
We must be the only society to be able to have oppressors oppress themselves, forced down by the rules and regulations that came from nowhere.
We are all just feeding off the dead lions, or left to starve and be ridiculed.

This is not beautiful

“My brother killed himself
on the twenty-eighth Thursday of last year
and I missed four days of work
and my mom wanted to know ‘Why’.
My brother
he was always a fan of beauty
but what he did
was not beautiful at all.
And last week I got the news
that one of my good friends from high school
had overdosed
except this time
she’d gone too far
and now she was gone.
And I had a hard time falling asleep at night
and her mother
hugged me tight
and thanked me for coming to the service
but I did not
want to be there at all.
This is not

The girl down the street
would’ve turned 21 last year
and I can scarcely imagine
the wild times she would’ve
But she is buried six feet deep
after falling nearly 300
and she did not leave a note.
This is not

My freshman year of college
and my roommate was beautiful
and how I wanted to be just like her.
But she wore herself down
till she was
almost invisible
and if you blinked
you had to go and find her all over again.
So now her parents are no longer supporting her college tuition
but are paying her hospital bills
watching their daughter crumble.
This is not

So y’all can take your narcissistic
and glamorizing
of self harm and eating disorders and committing suicide
and shove them as far up your ass
as you possibly can.
Starvation is not beautiful.
Killing yourself is not beautiful.
is not beautiful.
This note I am writing
is not beautiful.

But you
you are beautiful
and it’s about damn time you start believing it.
(via runiqu)”

I really don’t know who wrote this of whether they are happy or not or whether they felt better after writing this. I don’t even know whether I’m happier or sadder after reading this. I’m not a very good judge of beauty or anything for that matter and generally let other people do that for me, but I personally think that this is… more wonderful than beautiful. And while my experiences with suicide and harming yourself is almost nil I do know quite a bit a about humans and I think that this human is very very courageous and whoever you are I think that this piece of writing is very very brave.
With love,

P.S I got this from http://nanao-anime.tumblr.com/post/80874787468/my-brother-killed-himself-on-the-twenty-eighth which is a tumblr site that I go to to get cool pictures to copy.

I don’t know where this went

Mum says I shouldn’t write this. She said that I will write bad because I’m tired, or at least that’s what I’m guessing. She used a word starting with the letter P. I don’t know what meant, I can’t pronounce and I can’t spell. Sometimes people assume I have swallowed a dictionary, because I occasionally use words that sound like they have come straight from the Victorian era. This can be both annoying and charming.
Unfortunately for my mother, at least, I am stubborn and am really bad at doing what I probably should. I wanted to make this post about writing but I seem to of gotten off track. I can’t say that this is a particularly unusual thing for me. I start out thinking about something really important and then it’s gone. Vanished the thing you were just holding and all I am left with in the knowledge that it was really important.
I am sitting on the deck and it is dark and cold, but I am wrapped in a blanket that has green and red and matches my crimson headphones and the porch light in looking down on me. I can see the streetlights going over the bridge in the near distance. Mum’s ikea birds are sitting in the tree in our back yard like bird shaped stars. They are illuminated by little bulbs that look like little glowing hearts. That is both a clichéd and whimsical thought. Dad’s prayer flags that he brought back from Nepal are gently swaying in a breeze I can’t feel. The sky is not yet black but I doubt that colour is far away in the distance. Night is here but it has not yet taken us. One day dad brought home little disco balls to hang on the deck. They are twinkling happily at me. The bamboo wind chime is hanging a little ways a way from me as I sit. It sways like the prayer flags.
I always root for the underdog. Always. I don’t know why and I am always disappointed when they lose, but I can’t help it. It isn’t a voluntary thought. While I really don’t care for winning when I’m personally involved I can’t help but wish other people happiness and if winning is going to make you happy, go for you life.
I’ll root for you.
Something I have leant while going through cancerous period in my life is that I am completely indifferent to death. I believe that it is far braver to suffer than to die, but to be brave there has to be something painful to be brave against. Don’t get me wrong here, I don’t take death lightly. I just don’t care for the idea. My mortality is, as far as I’m concerned, only my business of I make it that way. I’m going to die. My family is going to die. My friends are going to die. Yes, this topic can be incredibly morbid, but fuck. There is so little we can do about it. As an atheist I don’t believe in heaven or hell, nor do I think there such fabulous ideas and in general I choose not to speculate about the great beyond, but I do ponder death. Not because it is morbid and scary, but because it is interesting. I’m much more interested in the ways of which we go than the even itself. In the end the same damn thing happens, the reasons why can be tantalising, but naturally sad.
I view cancer as kind of internal terrorism and that suck shit balls, but hell, it’s in my life, there is nothing I can do about that so the best thing I can do is figure out why.
Once again my thoughts have strayed from their original course, but I doubt I would have gotten far with my initial topic of choice. I wonder if I am writing in the way Mum said I would. I can’t tell but if I am I apologise, but if I’m not they I hope that this piece of writing does something good. I can’t think what but as long as it has a good effect on something I really don’t care.
When I was in year one I had a year of wandering. The teacher was really into talking to us about the most mundane things like why our parents might serve us veggies or why we shouldn’t go to the bathroom on our own. In general this was how we spent our mornings and afternoons. The other kids were happy because, well, we weren’t really doing any actual work, but I was seven and bored shitless. After a little while of almost falling asleep with the boredom of things I already knew being spelt out to me I did what bored seven years olds do I snuck out of class. I realise now that this probably wasn’t one of my wisest moves, but I never got caught, so what the hell? It wasn’t actually as difficult as you would think. All you had to do was back up while the teacher was chatting and sneak out to door as quietly as possible. I doubt the teacher even knew I was in her class by the end of the year. I never went out for very long, just long enough to gain the courage to come back in. Sometimes the teacher would ask where I had gone and I would tell her I had gone to the bathroom. She never questioned that. I don’t think I learnt anything that year. My year of wandering.
Last year my school held one of its many plats. The play was ‘The king and I’ naturally I went along because it meant I would get out of geography and science. All who have seen the play will know that the king dies at the end and while the king is on his death-bed he asks his eldest son who will be king after him what he will do for the new year ceremony to which the son replies “I will hold boat races” when the king asks why the boy answers “because I like boat races”. While watching this I thought ‘yup, that how I’m going to live my life, because I like it’.
Once again I have noticed that I have let this go one and perhaps I am droning but whatever. I will publish this anyway and see what happens.
When ever I think this it never ends in a good place.
Oh well.

Anger, offence and a torrent of reflective humility and fortunate vanity.

Sometimes books are really terrible. Sometimes they really are. I just wasted a good half day reading a stupid little book that even as an inexperienced writer I could correct and alter its paragraphs. Unfortunately for me the stupidness of the accused is not something I seem to be able to put down. I can disagree with everything it represents. It’s blind narrow-minded writing. On average I am not a particularly judgemental person. Sure, I observe like nobodies business and, lord knows, do I have opinions on what I have observed up the wazoo. Still this book… angers me in an odd way because it feels like a an act of disrespect to the storytelling of my generation. I can accept as an avid reader of teenage fiction that there are a lot of books out there that are so sappy it kind of makes you want to gag, but still the writing talents have not diminished, they have just become a whole lot more difficult to find. For example, The Hunger Games. Awesome book and rightfully quite famous. The Book Thief. Another great book. Not quite of my generation but still hugely appreciated by us. A less common one would be The Night Circus which I have taken quite a liking to. I guess that’s the reason that I feel so angry now. I despise the idea of stereotyping and generalisations even though I occasionally guiltily succumb to them and I don’t like the idea that all teenage fiction is twilight-y bullshit. I spend the majority of my time as a hide from society inside my own head conjuring up and writing down stories and I feel… quite… offended to think that my somewhat not bad stories would still fit into the same category as the book I just read. Of course I could never hold myself so high with something I care this much about. I have written some truly terrible stories in my time. We are talking some real sappy shit here. I can’t say how I feel about my past epic failures, because at the time I didn’t realise just how bafflingly terrible they were. I like to think of writing the same way I think of art. There are the pieces made by people who really know there shit. The guys who dedicate their lives to knowing their shit and make a point of letting everyone know they know their shit. Then there are the guys who really don’t know their shit and are humble enough to admit that until they are ready and have perfected themselves enough to run at the world with their guns blazing. Then there are the people who not only don’t know there shit but can’t accept that so they run at the world with a broken slingshot that they think is a plasma gun.
I think that pieces of writing just like pieces of art should always be attempted but never out put until your sure that you understand what good means in the context of what you’re doing. When I first started writing which was in about year five I did not know crap. It was around the time that I began reading on a slightly higher level, but still when it came to really good literature I would have see it if it started screaming my name and dancing the waltz with my sisters. I started writing because I wanted to. Thats the reason I do anything. My thoughts were along the lines of “Hey, I’ve thought of the outline of a story. I think it’s pretty cool. How ‘bout I write it down in this little purple notebook I found in under my bed one time”. As you can see I was not a particularly complex thinker at the time, now, on the other hand, I have complex thinking leaking out of my ears. When I showed people my writing, in my little purple notebook they thankfully congratulated me for trying and kept their well-earned critical complements to themselves. Naturally I felt like the toppest of all the top shit. Fortunately I always feel like that so it didn’t really make much of a difference. As I got older and I read more and more and understood more and more I discovered I wasn’t as top shit as I had perviously thought, nonetheless as I went though my terrible stories I still continued to believed that the most recent addition to my terrible stories what the best, all the while looking upon the one before it critically. Every time I wrote a story I would look back on the pervious one and find a few of my mistakes and I would be sure that I didn’t make them again. I continued to make more and more stories and they slowly, slowly got better. I am still doing this and will probably continue to do this for the rest of my life, because as my teachers have proudly preached to me “You can only get better”.
Anyway the point of this post it simply to spread the lesson the you must see and understand your mistakes to know the worth of your piece.


My school sucks at rain. When it rains its like the whole school goes into a state of both disarray and daze. We become solitary penguins. Swarming together in corridors and shelters. We wander mindlessly around looking for somewhere out of the endless drizzle that always seems to know where you are. A thousand lungs breathing the same warm damp air. Strangers following one another even though you have no idea who they are.
On rainy days so many friendships are reformed. Nobody has the energy to be awkward. Nobody has the care. You find yourself residing in the company of someone you haven’t talked to in ages. Or somebody you don’t even know. You don’t talk. You don’t socialise. You don’t text. You don’t play games. You listen to music and watch the drops of rain slide down the windows.
When it rains it is as if the whole school has decided that the only thing worth doing
is to breathe. Things like productivity and persistence and determination, they don’t matter. Late homework? Don’t care.
The best you can hope for is doing text book work. But the thing is though you don’t hope for the best because just like everyone else mental consciousness is suddenly such a trivial thing. When it rains you don’t pay the asking price. You just continue on your journey without a thought going to waste. Thoughts on days like these become such valuable things. If you think about something then that thing is important. When our minds and our bodies become rusty with dampness and you are thinking it is the basic equivalent of a miracle.
Rehearsals, shows, matinees, due assignments, homework all stop. It doesn’t matter whether it is achingly important. If rain is dripping even the idea of productivity is calmly looked at and then dismissed.
Throughout the day all you do is seek warmth and shelter and spare no thought to anything else unless it is of the utmost importance.
This is rain.

Here I am, strangely not where I used to be

I have always liked to think of myself as a bubble person. I live in my own personal bubble where I can keep everyone and everything that has ‘overwhelming’ stamped over there heads at a distance.
A few minutes ago I found myself in bed listening to music and reading. I have no idea how on earth I got here. But I seem to know what is happening in the book and the song I listened to before this one. This is generally how I spend my day. Blipping involuntarily in and out of mental presence. Some would call it day dreaming, but really it’s more like a small amount of peaceful calm. I know and understand what’s going on around me. If anything I notice more than when I’m really focusing on something. My brain just doesn’t register the situation as worthy of my full attention. So I just go on with whatever I’m doing without actually doing it at all.
To some people this is vagueness and something that needs to be fixed. To me it’s just the fact that I have the ability to go into a situation on auto drive and others don’t. It others its unresponsive and slow and something to be fixed. To me it’s just me clicking into gear after being briefly in a grateful escape from reality.
I’m relatively smart, I get good grades. In general my school life is completely unaffected by the fact that I stare out the window the large majority of the time. I don’t know how I gained the information I was being taught. I just gained it. It was said outside my bubble and it somehow my brain picked it out of the air, deemed it interesting or at least useful in the near distant future and decided it was worth the effort of analysis and storing.
This is just the way I am and I don’t think that even if I tried I would be able to change. It would be as pointless as trying to change the colour of my eyes on will power alone. It’s just the way I am and always will be.

Dear mister graveyard

I have always loved graveyards. Even when I was really little. I do not believe in god, nor do I wish to be buried but I am superstitious. I don’t throw salt over my shoulder or anything but I have my rules that I like to abide by. Like never walk directly on a grave and never leave flowers on the ground without a grave. And the most important rule I have always abided by and always will, never be afraid. Dead is simply a state of mind not a cause of harm.
Graveyards make my dad sad and make my mum quiet. They do the opposite for me. I don’t like being with other people of the living in graveyards as I wonder, mainly because when your alone your free to talk. I have always talked to graves and what I believe to be the spirts hanging over them humble as the day they died.
A few years ago I remember my mum spontaneously taking me to this huge graveyard in Sydney and thinking about wanting to run into the head stones and talk with the spirits to my hearts content. Graveyards make me happy the same way a mirror does to a five year old. Being able to talk to something with out it ever being able to talk back but still understanding the words that you speak.
I have this strange belief that in every grave yard there is a mister graveyard who is the grave yard itself. He is the land in which the boxes of people are buried in and all of the people buried there are his children for him to take care of when they can no longer live. He is the caregiver and the caretaker. He is always old but never the same sort of old. He always has white hair. Sometimes he is grumpy and sometimes he is friendly but he is always safe. He will always take care of his children and if you talk enough he will also take care of you.
I have spoken with ghosts and they have never talked back but that is okay. I think if they did the balance would be thrown out of order.

Welcome to the planet awkward, we come to make you uncomfortable

High school if anything is awkward. Really, really, annoyingly awkward. Everything is awkward. In real life, the life outside the gossip and the awkwardness nothing that is awkward in my life would be that awkward at all. It might be because that boy’s of a certain age are just so fill with sexual joke, scrounged off the Internet that there ready to explode with laughter at the slightest movement between two people no matter the gender and girls who are so desperate for gossip that they will dig it up before anything would be aloud to bloom.
As someone with more guy pals than girl pals I end up with more awkward moments than most poor souls that end up somewhere in the educational system and I have found ways that eliminate awkwardness.
The Go along with it tactic: this is where you go along with the laughing and games and pretend that the slight movement was actually that you were thinking that the normally male subject should be your boyfriend. Just know that you kind of need to do this jokily or your going to end up with some poor friend looking at you as though their going to have to break your heart.
The “Like I care” tactic: this is where you roll your eyes. A clear signal that you don’t find it funny but you don’t really mind if they do. This often gives the normally male subject time to do the same. Eye rolling can really come in handy at the best of times.
And finally the “fun police” tactic: this is where you stand up looking pissed off and flounce off. This works really well if you throw a “you guys are so immature” over your shoulder. Of course we are dealing with twelve year old boys and girls here so this tactic may not be the best approach. Plus it makes them feel guilty and honestly it’s not really a nice feeling to make some one feel guilty.

Wars, peace and other things we seem to have around

Why? Why do we have to remember all this? Why do we have wars in the first place? We all know they only cause more trouble than good. Why can’t we just get over all the wars we have had before we start a new one? We have life, we have brains isn’t that enough? And what is with lest we forget? I mean I have nothing to forget. All I am expected to remember is the realness of the photos and the fake-ness of the computerized movies. The one thing to museum can’t fake is what happened. Museums pride themselves on telling the stories of past people but sometimes you should let the stories tell themselves. We live in an era of assuming, of jumping to conclusions. We must let the people who died and the people who did their best move on just as we must our selves.

My big question is why do we rain sadness upon ourselves only to regret it later? I just don’t see the point. Honestly. People are amazing creatures why do we insist on destroying each other? I know wars happen for good reasons and I also know I sound like a movie when I say this but isn’t there another way?

I don’t think people understand the bigness of wars….. or peace for that matter. When it comes to either of those topics none of it is ever simple. We just can’t say that the enemy is evil just to make up for the fact that we don’t want to think about it, plus they probably think we are evil anyway. We can’t look through their eyes just as we can’t look through our own.

I believe that evil only exists if the person know what they are doing is wrong. But we can’t just go around saying the a person is evil just because they may have done us wrong. We can’t say whether someone is evil or not without being…well I don’t know maybe….physic and I’m pretty sure that’s impossible we’re just going to have to deal with not knowing 100% whether a person is evil or not.

You can take photos of it , you can make movies about it but you can’t hold on to it forever. All over the world people suffer as many years of war take their toll. We can’t make things better and we can’t bring them back just as we can’t rewrite history but we can take value in what they have parted on to us.

I look at the spaces on ANZAC parade and I just can’t believe that we can think that we will war again. How can we think of ourselves as a warring race? The whole idea of a war memorial is to try and make ourselves guilty so that we just can’t have another war. So why do we have spaces for future wars to go? We may as well leave a space in our diaries.

Thoughts of the many meanings

Senseless is one of those words that have a false definition or is just a plain myth. Nothing is senseless. Simple as that. According to the very useful online dictionary there are three meanings. (a)Foolish (b)With no emotion (c)Stupid

These are all ridiculous. First of all foolish practically means stupid so I’m pretty sure the person who wrote this had someone tell him he had to have three meanings and he(no offence to the male gender it could be a girl) Just looked up foolish in a thesaurus and wrote down the other word. Second of all everything has emotion connected to it. If there wasn’t you wouldn’t bother to do it.

I have just been watching the news with my family and it seems every news reporter in the country has been flown to bali to report about the ten year anniversary of the bail bombings. The .T.V called it a senseless act of cruelty. Oh come on that just shows what the television knows. Like I have been saying there is no such thing. It is like saying it was a….an….an emotionless act of cruelty.

Speaking of which I would like to dedicate this post the victims and the families and friends and basically anyone in Bali at the time the bombings. I wish I could make a joke of this or simplify it so much that it seems insignificant but it’s not. I can’t prove a point about this because I think the point was proven ten years ago when 88 australians, 38 Indonesians and 78 Bali people died. That just isn’t funny even if you put the worlds best comedian to the job.

In respect to all the people who died live well and make the most of the simplicity of your life.