huhu

It's a hot one. Got all sweaty down at the beach, sweaty and red taking the hike from Bronte to Bondi and checking out the sculptures by the sea. Some were fine, some were crap. Tamarama looked pretty good with all those sculptures everywhere. I'd go back when it wasn't so brain-zappingly sunny. Even if the sculptures weren't the greatest, the beach is always an adventure. Too bad I couldn't be with my babe and go hide behind the rocks somewhere discreet and have a quick little, you know, bit of fun. But anyway, who the hell cares what happened on my little day out? I can't stop thinking about the future of the arts in this country. I just think that the whole system is out to get the things that matter and add beauty to our lives. Everything needs to be a commercial transaction now or it doesn't have "value". That's the real threat, never mind what's going on in politics, which is really just that final nail in the coffin. It's a totally cloying atmosphere we are in, right against the grain of the human spirit. Well that's what I think anyway. I hope I'm wrong. I could rant and rant and rant and tell y'all how helpless one can feel in the face of thugs and hoods who call themselves politicians, corporate chiefs, respectable persons. But instead I'll just go hide under a blanket like I usually do. I'm supposed to be a writer, that's what I call myself most pretentiously. But last night like so many nights I just lay there at 4 am after waking and not feeling like sleep. I didn't feel like sleeping but I didn't feel like getting up to do anything. The inspiration just isn't there really. I don't know why everything is just blocked. Maybe it's because I feel like a complete failure and like I haven't really achieved much of anything. Three short novels finished, not one of them remotely publishable yet. That's not much of an achievement for a 36 year old so-called writer. So I'm not really a writer, just a frustrated teacher of English to foreign students. Enough self-pity for now.....