Like any blog-writer, I was unsure where to take this. I’m cautiously aware (tautology) that experiences and “I did this…” is not interesting to read and barely interesting to hear. Equally aware that the inner working of a person’s mind is proportionally only as interesting as the closeness to said individual. Equally aware that journalistic stylish writing doesn’t bare enough grit to pierce the threshold of becoming ‘moving’. Equally aware that I have used “Equally aware” 3 times.
But- maybe this could be interesting and potentially be humorous. And I would love it to be moving. These are my comments on the “who r u” of Londoners vs Brisbaners
When I meet new people, their outlook is important. Beyond the monkey grips of politics (obviously important), I have to know you can dig a bit deeper. Not through waters of trauma but more how one can digest the present. I find artists to be the most crystallised examples of this.
London creatives are often stoic, aloof and cutting. Brisbane artists are airy, friendly and ambitious. I wonder if it is the deeper epidermis of the Australian sunshine-smile disposition which dilutes the frosty pretention into a lukewarm fizzle. I crave both, yet the first gives desirable challenge.
I am unsure if I miss home. Is it like being a doctor, where if I really wanted to be a doctor then I would know for sure? I am trying to ease myself out of such a black and white logic and see more of the chromatic grey spectre in everything. I think that must be where intricacy lays low, smiling wryly (so overused in literature) in a “oh you finally got it” way.
I wonder if my life is yet memoir worthy. My vocabulary is tight and wide enough to produce a rhythm in writing, but I think I miss a story that can move. My goal is to be able to etch stories with words, descriptive enough to scratch rich acrylic into memory but with enough blowing breath for a reader to absorb and ideally become changed. I feel like I lack the first one and I admire those who can do both.
I understand that every word must have meaning, and I would love to let them. Or maybe this is garbage (or e-garbage because it is online).
To many “I this” and “I that”
written on a rainy saturday night in brisbane
Must Be That 