I think it is part of our unspoken job description that we must go here. But I don't get why the chairs are arranged as if we are an audience to the reception. I am not the audience. I am the performer.

Injustice that I should have to look immaculate, and in doing so still be judged inferior.

after our generation

Her body is
stitched with sores and dug out
cigarette stains
ivying around each limb
There's extra (a little)
itches of a second title, incongruous
unsettled at her skin-seams
coming not on boats
but by birth

So from above your cheekbones
must you see the transformation
If you lower your eyes
your face
unclench that neck
Open that throat, to breathe
like she does

There's something looming in that little extra
A vaster distance
A more silent energy
An unapologetic smile
A greater clarity masked by generosity of the unschooled
after some schooling
A greater stride some fourteen
months long
There the prize
There, she wins them over
Once she is out

half way day

The taste of $2 shop lipstick reminds me of going out
Slight plasticky feel
Are you made of scales or not?
Like my lips bled a little
bleeding over the edges

Tastes like aloneness
It's all smeared off by the time we are together
Tastes like glitter scalps
also gone, by the time that crucial moment
finds its way in

Much too sticky for practicality
But do I care, really
I like the colour
I like the colour of you
especially

and the open air
slide open, plasticky door
open, Sky -- open
open gate
which serves no purpose anyway
Drunkards wander in off the street
asking for telephones
we don't have a telephone
that's the truth

I am half done
that's the truth
a truth I made up
but nonetheless, some truth
I am half way there
because when I see the end
I prefer to look at it, than go to it
I'd rather observe at a distance
It looks better, anyway.

Some more of the old.

But I remember feeling embarrassed to agree with you, because my perfectionism did not result in success.

So I begin to wonder whether your decision was an attempt to seek my approval, rather than actually caring. Or, am I narrowing what such things can be measured by ?

07.01.12

I wasn't trying to be surreptitious, I was being pragmatic.

from Mike

This morning I was a model for a life drawing class in Ponsonby.

At the end of the class, a very old man named Mike came up to me and said I could choose any of his sketches that I liked to keep. He talked very slow and walked even slower. I had seen his sketches during the half time break: vibrant pastels on black paper. I wondered who they belonged to and thought maybe a young girl about my age on his right.

I held this pose for half an hour. Of the four positions I held for half an hour, this one was (deceptively) the most difficult. I was standing under a heater and my neck and right shoulder were cramping already at around half way and I felt extra dizzy and like I wasn't hearing properly. The dizzy-deaf feeling reminded me exactly of Bikram (at the end of each pose when the instructor is saying, "PUSHHH! PUSSSHHH!" as if you're having a baby (apparently the instructors are much nicer overseas)), and also because little droplets of sweat were running down across my ribs, shoulders, forehead and knees. 

One lady named Jane, who was very particular and seemed like a Ponsonby local (massive stereotyping on my behalf) asked me if I was ok because I looked "quite pale". I had to keep relaxing my face - my forehead and jaw - which kept slipping back into a frown of concentration, stubbornness, exertion.

I'm really, really happy Mike offered me his picture. I really wanted one -- any picture from any of the artists -- but just a little piece of my self, from those three hours, to be gifted back to myself.

On a plus note, I'll be able to pay my rent this week.

Woohoo.