Must Be That

Tag: philosophy

  • post 4: expect the expected

    Scorn, wrath, guilt and numerous negronis mark my Friday night in an “izakaya”, an unfortunate appropriation for a hotel bar who’s only resemblance to Japan was that a few of the cocktails contained Yuzu. Quite the cultural experience, not dissimilar to a Disney cruise.

    The bar was moderate and reminded me of an airport. Dusky lights and low ceilings and circular stools and long wooden tables. Nothing special but servicable.

    I have recently made a friend. A girl who instantly passed my litmus test of a horrid mixture of online jokes, liberal views and garnished with a few jagged personal opinions that sweetly differ from my own. This is my delicious recipe for friendship which enlightened me. I have many people around me in my new life but none that can offer me emotional depth to the level that I breathe, writhe and shudder within.

    We have spent time within work hours and on local adventures. My current state of some crises of identity has led me to become an exhaustive, self-centred and emotional shadow that latches onto anyone who may be able to read my mind, offer me context and hopefully, define my new self. Without mirrors in the form of my dear friends and family, my dimensions do not exist. I test the boundaries with my new friend, being grossly provocative with my world views to evoke a curated argument on the battleground of a culture war which could feed me and paint a picture of me. This portrait could then be hung and exhibited in a grand reveal before my eyes so that I know how I am existing at the moment. This has been the basis of our friendship, selfishly defined by myself.

    After a few drinks, she makes a statement about being and how she is agreeable and goes along with things no matter how uncomfortable. This obviously rips open my constructed third space that I have opened with the sole reason to build my identity in my new world and new life. I feel betrayal simply for the reason that I needed this, but to know it wasn’t the truth was distressing. But I am also aware that this is my fault for building some false sense of security by hauling emotional analyses onto someone that doesn’t know me that well. I could dive through a million meta layers here, many of them I already have done but I will save you this dull wormhole or self-reflections.

    She also mentions sometimes my provocation of opinions and harsh critique makes her feel uncomfortable. I am relieved that it is a psyche-induced non-comfortability more than anything else and that it is less to do with the content of what I am saying and more of the position it puts people in. This is somewhat relieving, and I do not bother to offer condolences for a weak-will, it can’t be remedied by my actions. Cruelly, I don’t respect that kind of acquiescence — though I know the cruelty says as much about me as it does about her.

    So here I am: still talking about myself at length, still trying to define a self I don’t fully recognise. My greatest fear is that I’m giving bad reads of myself on purpose, just to be reassured that I am not the worst version of what I project.


    I leave the bar weird and squeezed, yet on the brink of something. Perhaps this is what a breakthrough looks like: not a grand revelation, but the faint outline of a self slowly coming into view under the low light of the city.

  • post 3: choice and the city

    As sunset folds into a glinting 80s metropolitan skyline, I couldn’t help but wonder- what happens if you gave country people a city.

    I have been in Brisbane for 8 weeks now and have conjured many a philosophy and ethos about my new home. Something that stands consistent is the transactional heartbeat of Brisbane.

    Brisbane operates as a city. Not vacant nor thriving but it does what it should do.

    Much different to european cities that are embroiled in history, politics, money and technology, Brisbane feels like a Sims (TM) expansion pack of a “city”. The reason for this is the people.

    Brisbaners are country folk, tanned and languid leisurely ancestors forged Brisbane into a comfortable country town.

    It feels like it was never meant to become this big. It feels like when you give a child an expensive, glass-tempered gift and they are more interested and satisfied with the box.

    To be a successful city, the residents must want it. They must plead to die there, burying their bones in a churchyard across the road from where they used to buy milk. An ultimatum of life bound by an extortionate rental agreement. A consensual marriage to the inanimate.

    Brisbaners are much happier with the box: owning land, curating country rallies and boot-scooting honkytonks. There is not unhappiness here, which is interesting, but an air of “ok”.

    I imagine this is why the turmoil and demolition of the city’s history was so easily approved. There is no saving the city that does not reflect its people. How can a city become sublime and alive when its people do not desire its fruits?