2005-02-01

Fruity of fruity fruits
Life in academia is quite surreal, and I have come to discover that no matter what form of employment I am in i tend to get caught up in the process of it all. I am fascinated with the illogical and messy games that people set up to ensure that they remain as individuals within an entity, even an entity as big and faceless as a uni.
There is no better place to get lost. For all of those witness protection types I can fully recommend getting an admin job at a uni and living somehwere suburban. Communications at a uni are notoriously bad, especially those institutions that offer communications as a course, and if you think anyone can find your email you have to be joking. The phones go down every two mintues, getting access to net usage that i snot monitored and spyed on internally is impossible, and actually leaving the building can get rather difficult if you don't have the right swipe card. Yup, be it student, academic or admin, uni is the place to hide in this world.
Had a fleeting visit with the Dr today (that is the slightly odd but unusually sexy lecturer Dr) and felt that old repulsion/attraction zing back into place. He had been deliberatly avoiding me as it turns out, but only because i am so devastatingly alluring that he feared no good would come of prolonged interaction. And hell, he has a right to be worried. I am unnaturally good looking after all. Who could resist this little old wenchy piece of semi-white trash? Hmmm...
Anyhoo, I decided to leave it at a work zing-thing that will never go any farther, and move on to thinking of bigger and better things, such as the weird spate of reminiscence that has been the feature of my dreaming in this past week. Old lovers, situations and even pets have plagued me night after night, to the extent that last night I had a dream featuring a dress that i had and loved when i was 14, and the first man I ever loved. Ahhhh, Conan (yes, his real name, damn black irish), I can still recall how sweet those kisses stolen on the end of the pier in Coffs were! How his long brown hair fell over his acne encrusted face as he strummed Dead Kennedys tunes on his bass guitar. How he quoted Dostoevsky to me, and promised that he would pull out in time so i didn't have to worry about condoms.
Naturally i yahoo'd him today to see if there was any remnant of him in the world even though I had heard that he'd impaled himself on a needle in Newtown some 10 years hence. Blow me down if i didn't find a reference to an academic living in Canberra working at ANU. And find his picture, and see that it was him, sans acne and minus a great deal of hair, but still my lovely bad bay of desire and taker of my cherry. Who would have thought that it would come to this?
I prefer to imagine that he went down in a drug induced haze, still spouting philosophy to a drunken audience, instead of grinding the gears at a two-bit academy for ag students. And that's kind of sad, to wish someone dead rather than living dully. And i can't know what his life is, really. Perhaps he has moments of humming Tommy Gun to himself and remembering how to fill someone's letterbox with poo and light it. I hope so.
So an ode to days past, and a wave in the direction of teen dreams and red bandanas tied around the wrist. I send you a kiss, moi petite rat, and a psychic mesaage of rebellion to remind you that the world is not only about bad phone lines and funding submissions for research grants.

bitch - moan