Sweat, Salt and Insomnia

It’s after 2am and I should be in bed, sleeping. Hell, I was in bed until a few minutes ago, although not sleeping. Just lying there, in the awful heat we’re promised at least three more days of here in Melbourne, and wondering if it would make things a bit cooler if I actually started to flay myself. My body does not deal at all well with extremes of temperature. In winter, at least, I can always put on more clothes, curl up beneath more blankets, turn the heater up an extra couple of notches. In summer, once you’re down to your skin, that’s pretty much it, baby.

I went out into my backyard after I got up and stood in the dark beneath the stars and decided it was maybe 3 degrees cooler outside. Contemplated sleeping in the backyard, on the grass. But I’d have to put clothes on for that, which would defeat the benefit of those extra 3 degrees. Fuck it. Hate summer. Hate the heat. The film of near-dry sweat that is always there. Seriously, have a shower, dry off, and bam: sweat. Again. Still. I refuse to waste water by taking another shower now just to cool down It can wait until morning. Yeah, okay, later in the morning. When the dreadful sun comes up again.

I have Important Things to do tomorrow (yeah, okay, today) and I really should try to get some sleep. And I am tired. It’s just that it’s a weary sort of tired, rather than a sleepy tired. I did no real work tonight, even though I planned to start my new story. Just pushed words around on my Asus for a while, read through some old bits and pieces that I thought maybe I’d work on instead, and then gave up in disgust. Wrote a couple of emails. Christ, I think I might move to Tasmania. It’s colder there, right?

Doesn’t matter how much water I drink, I’m still parched. And my fingers taste like salt.

My poor cats are stretched out as much as they could possibly be. I guess I should just be glad I don’t have fur. Maybe I should shave them both, would that help? Scary witching hour thoughts, Kirstyn. Get the fuck back to bed. Anyone know where that switch is? You know, the one that turns off your brain?


Happy Happy Joy Joy

Attended the Aurealis Awards in Brisbane over the weekend and had a truly amazing time. Caught up with lots of lovely old friends, made some lovely new friends, drank way too much, slept way too little, partied way too hard, stumbled across something delightful and unexpected, and … oh yes … won a little award. I didn’t have a speech prepared because I seriously, 100% totally, definitely for sure, knew I wasn’t going to win. Deborah Biancotti was going to win. Which was just as well, I thought as I sat down for the presentation right at the back of the theatre, because of all those stairs. Let Deb tackle the stairs. But I did win, and I didn’t fall down the stairs, and I think I managed to say something vaguely intelligent and funny and thank most of the right people.

What I forgot to say was how awesome the other authors in my category are. Seriously. They all rock, and I felt pretty damn humbled that the judges chose my story over theirs. Which, as anyone who knows me can attest, doesn’t happen all that often. The feeling humble stuff. It was kinda … cool.

Oh, and while half-napping on Saturday afternoon in my hotel room before the big night, a beautiful new story bloomed just about whole and entire inside my head. Which almost never happens. And I think it has a happy ending. Or, at least, a not unhappy one. Again, with the never happening. Strange days, good days. Not even the 40+ degree temperatures we’re forecast to have down here for the next week are really depressing me. So, there you go. Shiny.

Well, there’s your problem!

I’m on a quasi News Fast at the moment. Mostly cause I’m actually ker-razy busy with a bunch of stuff, but also cause it’s something I do every now and then as a kind of media detox. (Yes, I have heard that Obama is President now. I’m not that far off the grid.) I just feel happier, calmer, saner, when I tune out The News for a few weeks. Until I start to feel guilty about allowing myself not to care about what’s going on in the world, and tune back in, and then the whole damn thing starts again.  Ahem.

But I accidentally read something today which reminded me why I’m on a quasi News Fast. There’s some new self-help book just published called Changing Relationships by a Dr Malcolm Brynn. (No, you google it, I honestly can’t be arsed.) In the review-posing-as-news-story, Dr Brynn has the following to words of wisdom to impart:

If you had a very passionate first relationship and allow that feeling to become your benchmark for a relationship dynamic, it becomes inevitable that future, more adult partnerships will seem … a disappointment. The solution is clear: if you can protect yourself from intense passion in your first relationship, you will be happier in your later relationships.

Now, maybe he’s being misquoted out of context, or whatever. My leftist sensibilities insist on giving benefit of doubt here, but really, what I want to say is: Fuck you, Dr Brynn, fuck you very much.

Protect ourselves from intense passion? Protect ourselves? So, what, we can better put up with being bereft of intense passion for the rest of our lives? What you and your ilk really mean is, put up with being bereft of intense passion in all aspects of our lives, right? Put up with putting up, because that’s what happiness is all about. Being content. Not rocking the boat. Being grateful for what we have. Excising the desire for social change. Excising desire for personal change. Excising desire, full stop. Except, of course, for the desire to buy that massive plasma screen television with the surround sound home theatre system and latest must-have game console, which will make us so very, very happy.

Protect myself from intense passion?

Really. Truly. Fuck you very much.

Obviously, I need to maintain my fast just a wee bit longer.