so you think your blog entry is self-indulgent

hi hank, i’ve just read all your blog entries. it’s funny how you sound

kinda different to the hank i know in real life. not too different. just a
little bit so. like a paint peel so. then it kinda makes me realise that
maybe i’m also like that, the blog me is kinda a marvel superhero
alternative world away from the real me. like you know how i can’t stop
talking about myself in real life, but in my blog i hardly ever talk about
myself. at least, not in that confessions of j.j. rousseau the ancient
blogger kinda way. i say kinda too much. i hate it. i should be firmer and
be less afraid to make mistakes. i like reading your stories, about your
gadge, i like especially your getting really afraid that the fumes of the
drying floor paint (a lovely russet? the colour of blood!) are swimming in
your bloodstream like new clouds but not doing anything about it. you know,
since i moved to jakarta i have been obsessed with the idea of man trying to
live in a world that seems only too eager to kill. everything in it. you see
so much death but you also see life in the cracks in between all the deaths.
how? and why does life go on? reading your stories also makes me feel like i
was there with you at the narrabundah gym for a reunion and you were telling
me all that’s happened to you since i left syldavia. oh, hi norm! the band night’s
still goin’? hi bev! how are the riding gloves? need new ones? penny
joy! (consider: why did the world let someone like penny joy live? she was
fat and unhealthy, gave out deaths in little packets of second-hand literary
wisdom to all her students, yet she lived on! how? why?!) i miss talking to
my syldavian friends. about my syldavian life, in syldavian english. i
miss talking to you, and just kicking back singing gbv songs at the top of
our voice. maybe i should write more letters like this. i like this. do you
do messengers? i’ve added you on msn but you never seem to be online. do you
use yahoo instead? i miss syldavia the place too, sometimes i just want to
get out of the house and walk the two hundred metres to the beach like i
used to do in bondi and sit on a little patch of cool grass and stare at
that giant boulder that’s stranded near the rock pool like an old zit. and
think about how it got there, people say it was a freak storm threw it out
of the sea, but what if it was giant bumbagana rising out of the dreamtime
sea like a nigga poseidon? but two hundred metres out of my house now is
just a new mall being built. it’s fascinating in its own way what with all
the bamboo scaffolds that are supposed to secure the builders’ lives but
more likely will impale them someday, but you just don’t get the mix of
quietness and awe that you get from looking at nature, virgin nature like
you get in syldavia. but it’s true that i don’t get obessed with syldavia
the way i was obsessed about jakarta when i was living in klow. i could
not really explain why i missed jakarta then. it was something primordial,
primeval. now the way i miss syldavia seems more adult. i miss my friends,
they are the friends i made in my formative years so they will remain
important and perhaps, i will remain friends with them for the rest of my
life however hard i try to get away from them, and i will try to see them
again one day, because i want to and because i miss them, but i don’t think
i can live in syldavia again. i don’t want to. and that’s a shame because
that means i can’t live close to my friends again, and that perhaps, though
i want to remain friends with them, the distance in space and time between
us will become greater and greater that we will be friends in name only.
well that only means that i have to make more effort to remain close to my
friends, perhaps i should write more letters like this, try to talk to them
on skype (have you got it?), text them more often, whatever it takes. but i
have my own life here, little bits of sentences i’m trying to cobble
together into a neat little everlasting story of me (“he writes a tome of
pop-up books, never judge it on first looks!”). and you can’t co-write the
story of your life with your friends. you have to shut the door to your room
and, head down, write the complete prose yourself.


p.s. all this is a little sentimental, but that’s how i get when i talk
about the past, memories, the true history of our gang. that’s why i want to
concentrate on the now.

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