Saturday, July 11, 2009

If you know me, you'd be all-too-aware of my itchy-feet-syndrome. And I'm not talking about tinea.

Recently, I jetsetted off to Sydney, and re-evaluated my life and current decisions, for what could possibly be the threehundred and fifth time. I lived on my sisters couch, adventured, drank some bourbon and visited an old friend.
I went to Paddy's Market, and handfed birds at Central Station, whilst innocent bistander's sent disapproving glares my way. They just don't understand the bond I have with hungry animals, especially rabid, fat city pigeons.
Whilst it wasn't the Sex, Booze and Rock 'n Roll holiday I had first envisioned, I came home with two suitcases, a bruised ego and a pocketful of brand-new-secondhand revelations.

Upon returning to the wet hole that is commonly known as the Bellarine Peninsula and the Greater Geelong Area (what exactly makes it "Greater Geelong"?), complete with its fair-share of Private-Vs.-Public-school-girl-on-school-girl bashings, gang rivalry, sexually transmitted infections, teenage pregnancy, drug addictions, animal slaughter and other crimes against society and such, I was confronted with the ever pending question: do I really want to be here?

Originally, I had plans of granduer, that generally involved completion of my Victorian Certificate of Education, certifying that I had, in fact, gleefully (painstakingly endured) twelve years of my family threatening me with a full-time job, in which the uniform consists of either gumboots, blood-stained trackpants and a full-set of glittering, sharp knives, or a t-shirt with McDONALDS TRAINEE emblazened on a name-tag above the words AMY-JEAN.
As if my name needs to be dragged through the mud even more; No, thank you, McDonalds, I'll save my hamburger skills and general dislike for customers, for the time when I have to cook and clean for my so-called-husband, my children and my in-laws - if that day actually arises.

However, as with all plans of granduer, some hiccups arose. For instance, my writer's block.
If you aren't a writer, or aren't gifted with some form of vocabulary, opinion and a need to express said opinions and use your vocabulary, you probably won't understand just how debilitating it is to stare at a piece of paper for an hour, and the only thing to come out of the end of your pen is "...fuck."
Because "fuck" is one of the few words that come to mind when writer's block sets in. Other words that come to mind are as follows:
- Suicide
- Coffee
- Fuck
- Coffee
- Sex?
- Fuck
- Cigarette. Now.
- Who farted?*
- Fuck.
- Fuuuuuuuck.
- Suicide.
- Fuck.
* "who farted?" can sometimes change to "I wonder what sex would feel like if I were a boy?", "I wonder if I'd make a good stripper?" and/or "fuck".

You get the picture. Doing this in an outcome, and then realising you only have approximately ten minutes to think of something that sounds intelligent, but is complete bullshit, and you know its complete bullshit, but you also know the examiner will look at language such as "disposition" and anything else in between, that somehow either challenges the prompt, novel ect, and generally makes you sound like you've read the text at least four times and have a clear understanding and background on the author, characters, ect.
You can bullshit all about the character, the authors symbolisation and often, how authors recount things through their protagonist, and the examiners will just lap that shit up.
But, for fucks sake, if you're going to bullshit, back that shit with evidence. Even if its bullshitted evidence. Example:
"Such-and-such displayed discontent and outrage towards women. It is clear that such-and-such has issues towards women, as shown in Chapter 12, where such-and-such verbally abuses a helpless waitress. Such discontent clinically begins with the parent(s), in this case The Mother. I believe that the author used his chauvinistic disposition to symbolise abuse suffered."

Not even I had a fucking clue what I'm talking about, but it makes sense, and sounds like I know the character.
They like that.

back on track...

So I had a serious case of writer's block, and had absolutely no fucking direction, let alone idea, on where I was going, what I was doing and so on and so forth.
I'd gone from coming to this god foresaken hell-hole, with a whole volley of plans and aspirations, and general belief that I'd be able to set myself up for a fantastic career in... whatever I wanted to be at that time.
At that time, I also believed that my then-boyfriend and I were going to live happily ever-after, buy an awesome dog, eventually move out to an awesome unit and buy an awesome new car, work awesome jobs and have constant, all-the-time awesome sex.
Oh, in an ideal, awesome world.

The truth is, and I'm putting my integrity and dignity at risk by saying this, I wake up some mornings before school, and I burst into tears. Those mornings, Mum knows how ashamed I'll be if I go to school with a red, puffy face from previously blubbering and wailing like a two-year old, about how I just dread going and doing something that I absolutely loathe.
I hate on myself for the rest of the day, for blubbering over such a ridiculous thing.
By then, Bold and the Beautiful is on and suddenly, I'm at ease.

So, Mum and I had one of those "conversations" this afternoon, in which we would consume over twenty cups of coffee and just as many cigarettes. Dad has recently become a partner in a knackery, which for some obscure reason is just his absolute, all-time dream. After-all, the man has owned two which functioned quite well until they ran out of dead livestock to turn into
25kg bags of dogfood.
And of course, this knackery has a house.
And what is it?
basically, my dream house.
It's built onto the side of a hill, with a back verandah that overlooks valleys and rolling hills, and mountains.
I miss mountains.
There's endless green grass, and no fucking neighbours or relatives that feel the need to "just drop in for a coffee" and proceed to bitch for a following two hours, about some other relative that recently upset them.

Mum basically packed my bags for me, until I told her that there was absolutely no way that I was shifting myself off to my little dream this side of Christmas. Afterall, I've endured the longer part of eleven years of schooling, countless bastards and ridiculing (and ridiculous) teachers. Why would I back out with only four months to go?
At least if I finish year 11, and being dad's On-Call Secretary, Worker, Interior Designer and Designated Driver doesn't end up working out, I have three options:
1 - Go back to a school or tafe, and finish that final year.
2 - Work my arse off, travel, have my break and get back into the mindset, do all the precursor courses for whatever career I might want then, and apply to be a Mature Age Student at university or Tafe ect when I'm over 21.
My sister left at the end of year ten, and worked until she turned twenty-something, in which she applied to be a mature age student. She is now driving a brand new VW Polo, living in a flashy, fully renovated, $300 per week apartment in sydney with her graphic designer boyfriend, earning stacks of cash, writing up safety audits, risk managements, and everything of the like for OH&S.
She came from Wagga Wagga, where your choices after year 10 are Teenage Alcoholism, Teenage Pregnancy or to leave. She tried Alcoholism for a little while, but eventually grew tired of being so broke.

And my third choice?

Well, I can always get knocked up and live off of centerlink in a commission house, contemplating suicide until my child turns 18. **
** obvious sarcasm.

So, I'm leaving. Finally.
In saying that, I'm petrified of what might happen, what could happen, what should happen and what I want to happen.
When I left to come here, I left my best friend, Jess, behind. I almost left our friendship behind too. The hilarity in this situation, is that Jess and I have moved away from each other on a number of occaisions, but always seem to end up, eventually, living within half an hour from each other.
She lives, basically, on the other side of the hills in which i would wake up to every morning.

We already have plans.

"I'm going to build roundyards, and a stable, and an arena, and I'm goign to buy some cows. And I'm going to buy a motorbike, or a fourwheeler! My god, Jess, can you imagine it?! Us, on a fourwheeler! Dangerous!"

"Yeah, man. Like that time at Cabbage Tree, when you were doing 70 around those gravel bends in your dad's old car, and I was crying and screaming at you, and you thought it was fucking hilarious!"

"Oh, man, it's gonna be like the oldtimes!"

"Before we build the roundyard for the horses, we're making a firepit. We can't have the old times without an old car, firepits and boys."

"Who supplies the boys, Jess?"

"Me. Like the old days."

"Fuckin' Rad."