How To Procrastinate

I should have been working on my dream to become the perfect blended author. Instead I was walking the social media mind field in order to grasp at friendships that are incredibly bad for me.  I even struggled with the decision to make this first person or third person narrative. I mean wouldn’t it be a bit self indulgent to be all I all the time. The third person was no better I would use she too much and that could get tiresome. I should have been linking all my social media devices to my blog so everyone would know the brilliant post I had written about hanging out the washing and being objectified by a  drunkard friend of my house mate. Instead I was fishing for attention from someone who was not to be fished for. On the 13th of September at 1:18pm I sent him this inbox message.

it seems i now have a pychologist appoinment at 2pm on tuesday so will not be going to my second half of classes. if you want we can hang after im done? i will more than likly be in a better place mood wise after a good psych consult.

i am a bit all over the place at the moment.

The waiting began. I did want to see him you see. I wanted to look at him from across a table at the gallery café where he gets half price treats for being an education officer there. I wanted him to care that I was sad.  On Monday evening I checked  to see if he had replied so I could know if we were hanging out on Tuesday or not. He had read my message at 9:12pm on the Friday but not replied. It gnawed at me like a rat on mouldy cheese.   I thought about working on my novel and getting it closer to completion so I could put it on Amazon books and get people to read it all over the world. The thought made me a bit sick though. I was a romantic and thus would probabley never be a successful writer. I wanted my book published by other individuals. I wanted my book loved by an outside party who proudly displayed my beautifully designed novel, on their book shelf.  I wanted my book to be a tangible entity that was handed around from friend to friend and loved and hated and discussed animatedly over wine and coffee.

Self -publishing seems like it would only work if you were not only a great writer but also a brilliant editor, an expert of the nuts and bolts of grammar and punctuation. This is not who I am.  I am a terrible speller and the curse of bad spelling lives on within my mind like the tune of a bad but insidiously catchy pop song.   I stare at my unanswered inbox message and ruminate over the ossible things he could be doing now.  I wrote an art review for a Melbourne based arts blog and went to bed, still worrying about the boy trapped in the internet, as far as it appeared to the relationship I had with him.

At 4:15am I awoke from a dreamless sleep to go to the toilet. On returning to my room, I could not resist checking to see if he had replied whilst I was asleep. As I waited the few seconds for my page to load I held my breath and felt the anticipatory hope flare in my chest like a small fire. It fizzled and I felt tears start to brim at the corners as I saw no red bubble of message notification.  He had liked and commented on my new profile picture but had failed to answer my rather sad and confessive message.  Devastated confusion rose within me. If he really cared about me he would reply to what counted. I snapped my Mac book pro shut and lay down snuggling myself under the vast blue bedding. The soft thrum of rain falling, comforted me enough, to fall asleep and dream vividly.

 It was a large and light filled art gallery like the type you see in art documentaries set in Paris or London. Lots of people and beautiful images on the high white walls.  The works looked like the particular ones created by a Melbourne based artist from Japan. Lots of bright coloured shapes and dynamic compositions.   The artist responsible for these works is not in the dream but the handsom boy who is ignoring my internet plee for attention is.  He is sitting in the centre of the maingallery in a circle of small children in various costumes. He is talking to them about the art and getting their unique perspectives.  I want to approach him to talk to him to ask him so many questions. He is busy and I do not want to disturb him.

Instead I wander around the gallery with a friend. She is a girl I met at a sound art performance a few weeks ago. She is from Tokyo and does not speak in words as we walk around. She communicates by making beautiful sounds from her throat that are reminiscent of whale songs but prettier.  We both jump and skip nimbly about the gallery. It is graceful tom foolery.  

She meets someone wandering the gallery alone. A handsome young man in a oin stripe  suit and a fedora. He smiles at her and opens his mouth. He does not speap but makes beautiful musical sounds like she does. I slip away as he reaches for her hand and they stand in front of a huge colourful painting both heads tilted up  to the top most part of the painting. 

The hansom boy of my dream is no longer sitting in the centre of the gallery. So I decide to leave.  I will make no progress here. I exit out the large and imposing entrance. Outside the sky is grey and the clouds hang heary with rain.  I walk half way down the entrance steps that are stone. He does not call my name but I sense his presence behind me somehow.  Prickling of tiny hairs on the back of my neck at the spot where my spine operation stiches begin.   

Turning around I see him. He is sitting on the top most step, the gallery looming up behind him. The  bleak coloured sky is reflected I  his eyes.  His perfectly shapes mouth smiles down at me as I walk back up the steps until I am standing only two steps below him and am able to look him eye to eye.  ‘Jess he says and as he speaks my name his eyes burn from gray to bright blue. He has the bottoms of his pants tucked into his black lace up ankle boots. 

‘Yes.’ I say softly reaching out and fiddling with his shirt collar. 

  ‘I really…I mean what I want to say is that I really want to kiss you. I…really miss kissing you.’

I cup his face in my small hands and softly kiss him on the lips.  His lips are soft and boyant and warm. The sky spans above our heads and the rain heavy clouds begin to rid them selves of some water weight.

When I awake I am breathing slightly faster than usual. The morning sun is a harbinger of doom to my newly risen self. It was a dream and will remain so for the rest of my life. He will never kiss me again or want to kiss me.   I  consider appropriating an artistic expression created by the Melbourne artist Anastasia Klose in 2006. She made a video entitled Film For My Nanna.  In the film the artist wanders around Melbourne’s CBD, wearing a wedding dress and veil.   Around her neck is a cardboard sign that reads: Nanna, I am still alone!


Instead I check twitter. I am quite new to twitter. I was quite apposed to it until my lectures in Writing and publishing in the digital age.  I have 30 followers and am following 142  different people, art galleries and magazines and writers. He is of course on of my followers. He is an instagram sensation.  I disagree with instagram on many accounts. My favorite being I am not arrogant I think everyone should know when I am doing something slightly fun and should also see it for themselves.   

I check to see if anyone has read my art review. Three people liked it! I am slightly pleased. An old guy even said that it was the best review he ever read. He also said it was the only one he ever read all the way through as art reviews usually ‘ bore me to frustration and sleep.’   My slight burst of confidance was shattered when I saw the review above mine had 7 likes, Had they read mine and hated it?  Were the 3 who liked mine just being polite and hoping I would read their blogs in return? Was that all anyone cared about on here, being read by as many people as possible? I did not read the blogs by the people who liked my article. I had better things to do.

Like see my new Psychologist. Before I leave my bedroom I see his latest instagram photo in my twitter feed. Someone has gifted him a book by Kurt Vonnegut. One he has not read yet.  My heart constricts as I realize he probably got given it by his girlfriend. Or one of his ‘sexual friends.’ That is, a friend he has sex with whilst still maintaining a relationship with the woman he lives with. I could never be that cool. I want him to myself. I want his heart and soul use of his penis. I do not want his penis to be community property.  Or maybe he found the book himself in a book shop and the thank you hash tag is simply for the book shop not his girlfriend.  Before I leave for my psych appointment, I write him a face book inbox message. My fingers fly over my keyboard as I glare at my laptop screen with the type of blind rage I will never be able to express when face to face with him.


Soo your too busy to hang today. Thanks for, as always, keeping me informed like a great thoughtful friend. And not keeping me hanging in the limbo of not sure whether to make other plans or make sure I’m free to hang with you.


I should have spent the hour before my shrink session, working on my novel. I know this But I guess it is true what some people think. Writers are a lazy lot. If I worked effectively, I could have at least one book a year out. I could be a lucrative and money having success. Instead I am just as Chris Klous says in her novel I Love Dick. Just another ‘Sad cunt tale.’  Intent on writing the exegesis of a misplaced passion.  Feelings  propel my creative endeavors forward, not financial gain. I am trapped within writerly catacomb of my own creation.   



I meet  my new shrink. Five minutes after sitting in a soft chair and talking, I realize I like her far more than my pervious psychologist the Canadian who sat silently and stared at me intently waiting for me to say something. This blondw woman in her mid forties was far more engaging. I find myself telling her about the boy and my novel in progress that explores the heart break he caused with almost loving brutality. 


‘These types feed of the power they get from knowing they have your attention.’ She tells me. ‘you need to ignore him. To reclaim some of that power. You need to close up that constant openness to his attention and feelings.’



By the end of the hour I had a small pile of dirty tissues clutched in my hand. The psychologist kindly pulled the bin from under her desk and let me throw the snotty and tear soaked tissues inside. ‘If you ignore him he will call. He will  want your attention because you are not giving it.’ I did not believe her.


As I walked down Sydney road towards Brunswick road. I checked my phone he had texted me twice.


I did not read them. Put my phone in my bag and kept walking. My steps were strong and deliberate. The sun was out and it warmed my back. When back into my bedroom. I avoided my laptop. I sat on my unmade bed and read and read and read. No music no distractions. No worrying about what my contemporaries were doing.


At 5:30 my phone rings. It is him. I see his name flash on my phone screen. I start to cry and the tears burn my cheeks and I taste the salt on my lips. I want to answer I want to hear his voice.  I think of all the times he has ignored my messages and texts. I see him laughing at the gift I gave him last time we hung out. I see him laughing and calling it ‘so shit.’ This hardens my resolve. The tears still fall. My phone stops ringing.  Ten seconds later he tries calling again.  I cannot remember the last time he tried to call me.  Was this all it took to get him to try a little harder? Simply ignoring him?  It was so hard to do. I am reflecting his thoughtlessness back at him and it is still just me who hurts. Ignoring him was killing me! I lay on my unmade bed tears soaking my pillow. My head pounding from the effort expelled from crying so hard.  I was worried about him. What if he needed me? I was ignoring his call for help, from thugs or blade flicking hoodlums.


As I lye on my bed ignoring his phone calles the bedroom slowly grows darker and darker. It was Andy Warhole who said that it was important to not worry about  it being good or bad, just that it was important to make art. Then while people are deciding whether your art is good or bad, you should just make more. The same can be said for writing I think.  It is this concept that floats up above all the pathetic feelings of rejection and pain. It is this thought that causes me to slowly sit up and wipe my tears away with the sleeve of my shirt.  I go into the small share house kitchen and fill  the kettle from the cold water tap. I make a cup of instant coffee mixed with drinking chocolate and two teaspoons of raw sugar. I take  my little miss sunshine mug filled with hot coffee and chocolate, into my bedroom and place it on my desk. I open my mac book pro. I open the word document that holds my unfinished novel. I sit down  and feel the warm glow of the lit screen on my face.


I place my finger tips on the keys and start to finish my ‘art.’