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Currently listening to the coverage of the SoundRelief concert on the radio and I must admit I do regret not being there. The way the crowd sings along with every song, the rain, such notions of collectivity are rare to experience and for those that know me, I esteem this kind of celebration at every chance. Right now Triple J is playing some of the days highlights: Coldplay collaborating with John Farnham for a cover of "The Voice"; Crowded House making a surprise reunion during Liam Finn's set for "Better Be Home Soon" and Eskimo Joe in Sydney. There was some politics over tickets this morning that I don't want to go into but I just sent Dave a text saying that I was an idiot for not going and I am sure he will rub it in my face next time I see him. For now the radio remains my antenna to the event. I am sitting at home now, in a big empty house, writing from my desk that overlooks the street, following the moment of silence, Kylie has just come on with a version of that song, I think made famous by Peter Allen "I Still Call Australia home" and the crowd sang along with every note. It sounded amazing. I had to turn away from the window for a minute because I too was overcome with emotion. Its a simple but very powerful song. There is nothing more alienating than listening to a collective celebration in pure isolation, but such is my situation. What can I do but affirm it? At present I have no one to turn to and its killing me.
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Before I went to the gym today I had a coffee at Tre Bic and committed the following in my red journal.
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Here I am again at the turn of the pen, twisting around gravities become heavy, the un-resolved. Writings appears to me as nothing but. Here I sit, testifying to a sudden abandonment, that abusive feeling where one says I have to leave because the moment's been corrupted and now I can no longer go along with -with this. Aside: It was just a bad start to the day and to have their company the whole day would have been a disaster given the fighting that ensued. It is Saturday afternoon. The day is marked by periodic rain. It is almost 2:30. I am going to have a coffee and then head to the gym after. I am really sick of feeling like this, no one to share one's company, no one to share one's thoughts with, no one to embark on the expanse of life that is most favourable in the company of others. And I do not see where the portals to change this are.
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Oh, how I dreamed it last night and how I awoke this morning with the same dream in mind. What maintains me at the present time is the hope of this dream. No future without this affirmation. My excitement defies articulation. I can barely speak without it all coming out wrong. How I awoke with the dream redoubled: the dream of the dream -continuous- that it might fall from the night into day, move out of one's eyes and into one's hands, out of my hands and into anothers. But here's the thing, I want yours too, I want yours to be mine -simple without a question; without hesitation, a pure and mutual scene of recognition. I want to come into contact with the dream of the other that is also the dream of mine. I dream of what it means to share a life together. I dream that dream emerging before us as an activity, a project. In that case its the dream to stop dreaming, to have to never dream again like this, because, quite simply, we would be living it instead of imagining it. Like how we come to imagine islands across the sea tempered with exotic life that we only wish we had. Oh, how many metaphors we dream in the absence of what we are really after. Yes, yes, I now see it clearly: this is the origin of dreaming.
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"Like a week in the desert..." -Crowded/Empty House...
