cease and desist

i know i’m only going to Melbourne for the weekend.

Comparatively it’s a short journey a jaunt really. 963 kilometers the internet tells me. Pales in comparison to some of my other journeys NYC: 15977.21 Kms, Utrecht: 16630.98.

But i guess the thing is that those journeys were about proving something, this journey is the proof.

See since my spontaneous decision to leave StinkTown and go to Melbourne for the weekend yesterday, i can’t help thinking what a change in myself this is representative of. The last two years rheiner and i have just been treading water. And while we’ve had some spectacular escapes like to Cambodge, i was always very frugal in terms of going any where else. (And it must be stated, i even complained about the extravagance of our overseas trip endlessly). See last year i was just so focused on ”setting myself” up for this year — i was too scared to live. (Of course anybody who knows me, can read between the lines, and knows what that means is that i would continually try to deny myself of fun, until I would explode in fantastic bursts of drunken debauchery.) But this year, i’m just doing it. This is why i can decide to bugger off to Melbourne on a whim despite what can only be described as a bleak financial situation. This is life. This is what i was saving myself for. And it is just the fucking same.

Which isn’t as dissapointing as it sounds. This realisation is part of the reason why i’m not as “stressed” as i imagined i would be about the final result. i’ve realised that while i’m certainly still trying for a 1st — i am doing my life. And not getting a first isn’t going to stop me living my life. Sure it may define how i go about the external details of my life a bit. But books will always be there. i will always be able to make things. i will always be able to force myself to write. (And this year has taught me that i do actually need to force myself to write — it doesn’t come naturally to me.)

It should not be any suprise to anyone, after those rambly paragraphs then that i have been so obsessed with the künstlerroman. i’ve always been partial to a good coming-of-age-tale. If i just think of the movies or novels that i’ve connected with most, there’ve always revolved around this narrative structure. 

And for anybody who hasn’t connected it already, the foetus paintings were/are definately part of this obsession.