First up: I've been holding off reccing this until I've finished it, because that's my usual habit with books, but this one's so enjoyable so far that I can't be bothered waiting: The Opposite of Life by Narrelle M. Harris, published by Pulp Fiction Press (Brisbanites: yes, that Pulp Fiction) is a book about twentysomething geeks in Melbourne on the fringes of the goth subculture, and what happens when they start getting et by vampires. The writing is sharp and quick-moving, and the characters are warm and prickly and real, and I've never read a book that's set so wholly in a world I know before.

The last book that came close to capturing a place and time that I recognised from my own life was Nick Earls' 48 shades of brown, which I read when I was an undergrad in Brisbane, and I'd recognise suburb names and general descriptions of the kind of Brisbane that I knew and loved. But The Opposite of Life is on a whole other level -- Lissa lives on a tramline I was on last weekend, she walks up and down streets I walk every day, she goes to the same tiny out-of-the-way eateries and counterculture bookshops that are small but important facets of my own experience of what living in Melbourne means. Melbourne is the perfect setting for a vampire novel, and I'm so glad to see it get its due as such here.

Oh! And! Lissa's main foil/ally is a socially inept, weird, chubby, totally endearing vampire named Gary. In the bit I'm up to, she's just bought him the Ultraviolet box set as a present. Owwww my heart. I actually had an invite to the book's launch, late last year, but couldn't make it on account of Amanda Palmer playing the same night. I think this is what is termed a 'these diamond shoes are too tight' problem.

Speaking of my dumbass problems, I deal really, really badly with stability. I have an almost pathological discomfort with it. I'm sure at least a little of my February melt-down was caused by the fact that my main job, the assistant editor one, had just become a lot more secure for the long-term. Getting what I want freaks me the hell out, because I never know what to do with it once I have it, except wait for it to be taken away from me. So I sabotage it, just so it's no surprise when I lose it, and so I'm at least in control of the inevitable fucking-up of everything that I'll do.

And even knowing that that's what I do to myself doesn't make it feel less uncomfortable and wrong when things in my life go easy and well. To make matters even worse, I just signed on for another year in this flat, and I like this flat, it suits me really really well, and so now I'm certain that something's going to go wrong and I'll lose it. Maybe I'm scared that something won't happen, and these good things -- my job, my flat -- are here to stay, at least for the time being. That's incredibly scary for me. I'm good at making do and muddling through and surviving when things are shitty, but I've never learned the art of living comfortably in happy routine. I have a tendency to knock the lego tower down so I can build it up from scratch all over again.

Somebody I love a lot has been gently but firmly cutting me out of her life since the February meltdown. I absolutely understand why she's doing it -- I was really, really scary there for a few days, and frankly I'm surprised that there's still anybody on the planet willing to associate with somebody as fucking crazy as me. It's hard to see someone you care about come to realise that their life will run smoother and happier without you, though. Obviously, it's hard. I'm not imparting any great unknown truth there. It's a punch in the windpipe. But what makes it even harder is that if I somehow had the choice, I would totally make the same call as her. My life'd be smoother without me, too.

I don't know. It's been a rough few months. I miss my family and girlneedsagun so much, even though I talk to them all the time. I haven't had a chance to hug my mum since Kat died, or to stay up late watching crazy dvds with my brother, or listen to my elderly, stiff-limbed, sweet-souled cat purr, or wretch around the mall with Grace talking about music and movies and the state of the world. I miss my wee sibs and my dad, and I haven't seen them in a year and maybe won't for another yet. I spent so much of my childhood feeling crushingly, intolerably lonely. You'd think I'd be more used to it than I apparently am, but. I'd forgotten how big and cold the world can be.

I don't know how anybody manages to make it through when the allotted amount of sadness and inability to cope and falling apart that we're allowed is so small. How do we just keep on getting up in the morning and rolling up our sleeves and getting on with it?

I still haven't self-injured. It hasn't been easy, but not giving in has at least felt like I've still got some kind of control over something.




Finally, a link to a short story from the 1960s, Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? by Joyce Carol Oates. I won't say much about it -- I want people to read it and discover it for themselves -- but I'm sure you'll see why I've linked to it.