Mmmm. I'm finding it difficult to keep writing analytically about eroticism as void, abyss, violent violation of self and other in attempt to know. I don't think I'll ever be able to have sex again.
I had a shit day yesterday in interviews trying to select next years UR editors. The interviewees were really good, it was quite daunting really. What made the day shit was the arrogant penises who sat on the interview panel. It's supposed to be democratic but there's nothing democratic about seeing who can say their votes louder. Can't really express how irritating the whole experience was.
I can't wait until Monday when I hand this fucking essay in.

Well, hello. Today I'm writing about "Black Sea", a short story by David Brooks, one of my lecturers. Now, there are a few problems with writing about a story by your lecturer. The first is obviously that he'll read what you write and think you completely got it "wrong" or worse, be offended. The second is that this story is about an erotic affair, and about finding yourself through the "red channel, passage" of the other in the violent sacrifice of (explicitly described) sex. It's so hard to read without picturing David in the place of the narrator, particularly after someone teasingly told me (a very reliable source) that David's really well hung: great image. EEEEErk. Lets just say it's been a slow day of writing.

I don't think blogging is necessarily that satisfying. It's like conversing to no one, or some far off listener who more than likely won't reply. Liz told me that she found it really funny that most people who we know who blog have some idea of themselves as writers and have been published before. Writers want to put their lives into words, they don't mind showing it like that. I don't really consider myself a writer, but of the other writing I do do the blog is different. When I write in the blog I kind of want answers or exchange. I should really build a range of responses into my computer; laughter, pity, sorrow, disgust. Or maybe I should just ring someone and talk about John Howard and my new undie swallowing skirt. But then sometimes you don't know who to ring. Sometimes you just feel lonely.

I just bought a new denim skirt. It's waaaay too funky for me, but it goes past the knee so at least it's modest. The woman in the shop said it would stretch and I fuckin hope so because I can't sit down and every time I put it on I loose my undies up my bum or around my ankles. See ya.

I don't like John Howard. When Johnnie was asked what he thought women wanted a couple of weeks ago, he said that he thought they wanted fulfilling relationships. And as if to prove the form this fulfillment would take, Howard today releases the baby policy, which seems to me to promote a 1950s notion of the family and the work force. More than that, this policy which is supposed to allow mothers (not parents) the choice to stay at home, is so piss weak (a max of $2 500 a year if you were earning $50 000) that it seems to me an pretty unrealistic incentive. Maybe I've missed something, if so can someone let me know?
Other than a general disappointment at the state of politics in Australia and an intense attempt to talk to my mother about her conservative views on homosexuality, life has been pretty fun lately.
I'm still writing the big smelly essay on eroticism although I've changed the topic to "The Sexual Body and Desire".
Went to a reading by David Malouf on Thursday which was interesting, but I must admit I tend to drift off a bit in readings, so I enjoyed the discussion afterwards the most. He talked about a theme in Australian literature which promotes an open and hospitable society but simultaneously sees the need to protect Australia from "invasion". Sound familiar.
I must return Rachael's thanks (to Hanna and Erin too) for a fabulous Saturday night. We really should go dancing more often.
Sorry this is a boring entry, I'm just using it as brain dead procrastination. Hope you are well.