cass, 21, living with hysteria. hello
all girls should have a poem
written for them even if
we have to turn this god-damn world
upside down to do it
--richard brautigan
LADY BANDS: for people who like their music with vaginas in it
email + @tarts + last.fm
radio silence? try my travelogue.
By the way, it’s been six months since we took this photo.
Somehow taf included me in a list full of people whose writing I admire—it was a really nice surprise. Thank you, lady!
![Figure A: high school sub-sub-posse 1.05
Sometimes I miss having a core group of friends where we’d do random shit together and like the same simple things and promise we’ll always be tight instead of getting distant and freezing everyone else out when we don’t fulfil each other’s emotional needs. But I’m not seventeen anymore, I don’t do the posse thing, and now that I think about it all my friends were misfits from different ‘groups’, so really we were halfway outcasts thrown into a sub-posse of sorts. At least now my friends are wonderfully diverse and discard any pretense of unity; the one thing we share in common is an incurable dislike of humanity — oh! when will young people learn — and unfortunately this includes most of my other friends whom they haven’t met, or have met and decided they just don’t jive together, you dig hep cat? (No, you retro dilettante.)
It means things like road trips and parties and even movie nights are pretty much out of the equation. Conversational invites go something like this: “Sure I’ll come to your charmingly quirky shindig, it’s just my cup of tea, who else is going? No one I know? Oh, just these people I do not approve of, or who make me feel inconsequential. So, no. But I’m sure we can catch up over dinner another time—” It is like herding cats together! At least you can pet felines, unlike humans who’ll get the wrong impression and won’t hiss or dig their claws in you (usually) but I hear there’s this thing called a restraining order. I’m pretty sure if I said “Right! So my farewell, in the event of my leaving the country and your lives for six months, has been cancelled because everyone was too precious to show up and partake in civilised discourse with strangers, fuck you all” they would reply in unison “At least I don’t have to talk to that bigot/broad [delete where appropriate], have a nice trip”. This is exactly what will happen, I am fairly certain.
But, you know, party anxieties aside, my sub-sub-posses kind of work for me. I have M1 as my go-to guy for gig company, and M2 for rhizomatic discussions on theory and fantasy fiction; K and E lure me into organic hippitude with apiculture tracts and chestnut soup and rhubarb tea. V burlesque dances, the CCC can do no wrong, CM crusades for human rights, D is a writing dynamo and jazz session musician and E reminds me to dream, but dream with purpose. Maybe they’ll never merge into a conglomerate of super-awesome sparkle! let me feed into your creative impulse every day type thing, but it still gives me the space to breathe and assimilate their fragmented influences into a self-shaped meatsack that I can drag around this world in search of something called coherence.
(Ruminations triggered by the retreat I’m going on tomorrow with uni sub-sub-posse 2.35: spec bro crew. They threatened to bring journals along so we can write about our feelings and share them in between drinking, baking, knitting, antiquing and wii-playing sessions. I thought I’d pre-empt them and float it on the internet first; let me insert a final ‘oh christ can you see how these dudes and the ladies pictured above would Just Not Get On?’ and leave it at that.)](http://6.media.tumblr.com/DhzNrk23bp4u1oh9RBwYWF3qo1_500.jpg)
Figure A: high school sub-sub-posse 1.05
Sometimes I miss having a core group of friends where we’d do random shit together and like the same simple things and promise we’ll always be tight instead of getting distant and freezing everyone else out when we don’t fulfil each other’s emotional needs. But I’m not seventeen anymore, I don’t do the posse thing, and now that I think about it all my friends were misfits from different ‘groups’, so really we were halfway outcasts thrown into a sub-posse of sorts. At least now my friends are wonderfully diverse and discard any pretense of unity; the one thing we share in common is an incurable dislike of humanity — oh! when will young people learn — and unfortunately this includes most of my other friends whom they haven’t met, or have met and decided they just don’t jive together, you dig hep cat? (No, you retro dilettante.)
It means things like road trips and parties and even movie nights are pretty much out of the equation. Conversational invites go something like this: “Sure I’ll come to your charmingly quirky shindig, it’s just my cup of tea, who else is going? No one I know? Oh, just these people I do not approve of, or who make me feel inconsequential. So, no. But I’m sure we can catch up over dinner another time—” It is like herding cats together! At least you can pet felines, unlike humans who’ll get the wrong impression and won’t hiss or dig their claws in you (usually) but I hear there’s this thing called a restraining order. I’m pretty sure if I said “Right! So my farewell, in the event of my leaving the country and your lives for six months, has been cancelled because everyone was too precious to show up and partake in civilised discourse with strangers, fuck you all” they would reply in unison “At least I don’t have to talk to that bigot/broad [delete where appropriate], have a nice trip”. This is exactly what will happen, I am fairly certain.
But, you know, party anxieties aside, my sub-sub-posses kind of work for me. I have M1 as my go-to guy for gig company, and M2 for rhizomatic discussions on theory and fantasy fiction; K and E lure me into organic hippitude with apiculture tracts and chestnut soup and rhubarb tea. V burlesque dances, the CCC can do no wrong, CM crusades for human rights, D is a writing dynamo and jazz session musician and E reminds me to dream, but dream with purpose. Maybe they’ll never merge into a conglomerate of super-awesome sparkle! let me feed into your creative impulse every day type thing, but it still gives me the space to breathe and assimilate their fragmented influences into a self-shaped meatsack that I can drag around this world in search of something called coherence.
(Ruminations triggered by the retreat I’m going on tomorrow with uni sub-sub-posse 2.35: spec bro crew. They threatened to bring journals along so we can write about our feelings and share them in between drinking, baking, knitting, antiquing and wii-playing sessions. I thought I’d pre-empt them and float it on the internet first; let me insert a final ‘oh christ can you see how these dudes and the ladies pictured above would Just Not Get On?’ and leave it at that.)
Why hello there
I am alive, kind of, though since I’m cloistered in my rooms with no external stimuli I feel the need to strongly question this prognosis. It’s been a busy week and this month is shaping up to follow suit, so the thought of prodding at the tumblr posts accumulated leaves me a little light-headed. It will get done! Just… not right now.
You can email me if you really need to get in touch, I have allotted myself ten-minute breaks in which I feverishly check that I’m still enrolled in my exchange program (I am) and if there are facebook‘d social events I forgot to attend (I did). Note to self: do not die! This applies to everyone else. See you in a bit, cheerio
Contemplating alternate careers while in the throes of academic procrastination and despair
I would only ever run my own cafe so I could offload the surplus cupcakes I turn out in moments of distress (like now) and there’s no one around to eat them. Such an occasion would also make use of the mismatched teacups that crowd my shelves, and also the fancy tea imported from Guam. Also I’d have a legit excuse to write poetry in crayon across the windows and change them as the mood strikes (this week: free verse. Next week: haiku), also I’d get to play decent music over the PA system, none of the piped flatulence that mars otherwise decent cafes in Newtown and Glebe.
Oh yeah, and I’m going to set up shop in my living room so I don’t have to move far when I want to take a nap in my own bed. That’s all.
I have a new laptop!
It is tiny and looks like this and I want to lavish loving endearments all over its shiny veneer, except “You’re so beautiful [Insert Personifying Name Here] I want to hug you forever and ever” lacks a certain amount of je nais sais quoi. This needs to be addressed posthaste!
Arbitrary laptop-naming principles:
- Must be two syllables long
- Must be masculine (excepting Carla, because Carl Barat’s sexuality is questionable like that)
- Must relate in some way to music (see: Maurice. I take Steve Miller Band at their word)
- Unless the name is absurd and precisely what I would name one of my kids, thus subjecting them to a childhood of mockery (Aubrey. No lie he is my favourite)
What should I name the new light of my life?
Bjorn Rune Lie (via Kris Atomic)
Not going to lie, the thought of that much snow makes me anxious about my exchange trip to the Canadian colonies. I’m antipodean to the bone: anything below 15*C constitutes a cold snap. But then I remember I get to wear hats like these while I’m there. That’s a much brighter prospect, though I’ll probably have to learn how to play ice hockey in the name of cultural immersion.
In amongst the mess of the past few days, here are three highlights:
- watching a Star Wars musical created by uni friends. The score was based on songs by Franz, Bloc Party, Placebo, Arctic Monkeys, Dandy Warhols and more: where could it go wrong? Picture a Jedi knight wielding a light sabre and singing a reworded version of ‘The Prayer’. Now imagine it conducted under UV lights while alien callgirls writhe in the background. Now imagine me getting excited about the number of women who defy the victim/whore dichotomy in the show, and you can see how much of a crowdpleaser it was!
- trying African cuisine for the first time. The menu earnestly described dishes as “tangy! So succulent!” AND THEY WERE. One dish was named after the Wollef word for ‘homosexual’
- my sister giving birth to a healthy boy. She’s named him Archie. I’m considering changing my name to Veronica by deed poll; my brother can fill the role of Jughead with very little difficulty
I don’t think the rest of the week can beat that.
a conversation that occurs with increasing regularity
Friend: So what degree is Kate doing?
Me: Asian Studies.
Friend: …Okay I need to spend the next ten minutes laughing at the irony of this.
(ten minutes later)
Friend: No wait I need more time—
Me: She’s also doing her thesis on the reproductive rights of Indonesian women under the Soeharto regime.
Friend: I don’t know where to begin with you two.
I smack down boys with yellow fever and I seem to end up with the female equivalent. For some reason people find this funny.
"I'm sure I've got a novel in me"
You’re never going to get it out if you keep finding reasons why you can’t write it.
- Uni - two days a week
- Study - two days a week
- Work - three days a week
- Internship - one day a week
- Hackwork - two days a week
- Peopletime (all) + gigs - three days a week
According to this schedule I’m putting 13 days of work into the time it takes a physical week to play out. I could say to myself “Oh this is too much, I’ll get around to it when I’m less busy” and then the holidays will arrive and you will find something else to distract you, you will never get around to it. This is why you should start right now. Pull yourself together, find your balance, learn the tricks to save time and take every opportunity given to you. I may not sleep this semester, I may have half an hour each week in which to write, but I’m damn well going to use it.
Internet people are more interesting than the ones I know in real life. The one I meet today happens to also attend my uni. I fidget with greenery and it is a rude habit but that is okay, he drinks so much coffee his curls constantly shake. “I once saw up Natalie Portman’s dress,” he says. What? Work experience on the Star Wars sets at fifteen, it seems: he hid under the stairs where she stood, she wore white knickers that plainly weren’t designed for zero gravity situations. Okay. He does not have crushes apart from Natalie Portman: no girl will ever compare to the vaginal crease (!) he witnessed that day for purely masturbatory purposes. He prefers girls with brains and brown hair (Portman is a Harvard graduate; he once used his student login to scour online journals for her work on frontal lobe psychology, where it resides in pdf form on his hard drive). I tell him there are studies that show your mother’s eye colour will dictate the eye colour of the women a man will find attractive. He solemnly promises to revisit his ex-girlfriends and verify this claim, in fact he is about to meet one that very afternoon. It all feels like a scenario from High Fidelity. I wait for him to start talking about the perfect construction of a mixtape, and for someone to fall out of love.
Reasons why an exchange trip couldn’t come at a better time:
- six people hailed me when I walked through the campus today. I do not know who they are
- three of them asked what happened with the old student paper, and whether I’ll put out another issue of the underground zine
- a new tutor did a double-take when she took attendance and saw me in the room
- I’ve been blacklisted by the union
- the new student paper kids made snide remarks when I picked up a copy
- the thai kiosk owner asked why our editorial team resigned so abruptly, and then gave me a discount (the chinese restaurant owner once asked to borrow our badge maker)
Hell, even my exchange facilitator recognised me when she went through the paperwork, but that has more to do with my job in the uni administration. I do not understand this level of notoriety, what will it take to take on the anonymous skin of an ordinary student? Translocating to the other side of the world, apparently.
