Tuesday, 5 July 1994
I thought it was about time I put fingertip to keyboard and pounded out a missive to Sis in my staccato touch-typing blur. How you doing? I should, here at the outset, just say thanks for the super wax letter sealing set. Completely super present. I don’t have much in the way of gossip, I’ve been leading a life of abstinence in all things except work, in which I have found refuge for the hours between watchable television and bedtime. I’ve been working six or seven day weeks for the past eleven weeks now, so that sort of time-table does not allow many hours for youthful excess and socializing. I don’t miss it (the socializing) much, to tell the truth. I’ve discovered that given some space for perspective, I don’t actually like any of my friends. Not any of them. I don’t think I have one friend who actually reads anything. Well, nothing more demanding than TV Week, with the sole exception of perhaps Josh, though he’s on a staple diet of Science Fiction.
Unfortunately that old devil of my childhood, boredom, rears up at me again. You’ll notice I don’t say “rears up its ugly head”, because boredom is too dull to even be ugly. It’s just boring. In fact, if you changed every word in every book in every library to the word “dull” and read every book in succession in a monotone drawl, you’d come pretty close to describing my average Saturday night. I do miss the youthful excess, though the enjoyment of it seems to be linked to the socializing. I tried some solo excess, but it lacked that sheen of desperation that so embellishes getting pissed with your mates. I feel a bit stuck in between, really. Too level-headed for my old friends, but too freakish for others. That’s freakish in thought, not appearance. Maybe I’m just getting old, but the physical rebellion of outward appearance just doesn’t have that kick anymore. Seems a bit pointless. Actually, I devised a philosophy of pointlessness the other week. It was based largely on the assumption that life is essentially pointless, there is no God (a supposition that my experience – limited as it may be – seems to ceaselessly lead me to), no grand plan or central motif linking everything together. As such, one cannot fail in anything, because success loses meaning, nothing has meaning. Ergo, there should be no barriers to happiness. This is, of course, a steaming pile of shit. It seemed to make a lot more sense when I first thought of it, and I’m sure this ideas has been thought of and dismissed before by much more learned folk than myself, I’m just not aware of it in my philosophical ignorance. Maybe I’m just a second-rate Nihilist, or more likely, an Existentialist dilettante.
My savings have gone somewhat off the rails these last two weeks. I bought some new glasses last week (finally!) and this weekend just passed I blew most of my meagre rations on movies and an absolutely crap CD by a band call “Pigface” (I should have known better.) I’m just sick of saving I guess. I won’t be going to England with Leah anymore I’ve decided. We had a bit of a barney the other night and haven’t spoken since though I’m pretty sure she tried to call last night – I let the phone ring out a few times. I thought “Mum’s in Queensland, Brett would ring me at work, and Josh doesn’t have my home number” so I knew it was Leah. She expects me to live the life of a monk (which I guess I am, incidentally) and not see anyone else. She said earlier that she wouldn’t want to know me if I started seeing anyone else, which I thought was a bluff, a stalling tactic until the re-unification she seems to hold out some tacit hope for arrives. So I mentioned in passing, some girl at work who was flirting with me, and Leah flipped and did the “wordless walk-out” routine which I imagine was supposed to leave me hanging. It’s not worth the hassle, people in general don’t seem worth the hassle. I must get over to her place and get my drum kit back, I guess I’ll have to squeeze it into my house somewhere. Its moments like these I wish I had my licence. I guess it’s not very mature to end a relationship like this, but the truth is that I really can’t be bothered, even if we’re getting along OK, I can’t be bothered with it – watching what I say, thinking of what’s appropriate to tell this person and not that person, just thinking of things to say to people when it’s all been said before and none of it’s going to change anything or anyone. I guess I’m coming back to my pointlessness theory.
Better be off. I’ll write again soon and enjoy the Cleo.