That Damned Sand in my Vagina
by Gethin A. Lynes
This thesis is in its approximately seven hundred and thirty first iteration. It has changed somewhat. I can’t seem to remember what my original intention was, though it had something to do with Arsetralia and my genitalia.
I seem to have crawled back into an old familiar hole the last few days. Or perhaps I fell into it, seeing as I find myself here, and don’t really remember how. I’ve been trying to keep my mouth shut, but I have failed, and now I appear to have a mouthful of soil, choking on it like a crumb of embarrassment lodged in my wind pipe. I have been cranky and tired, and deep in a bout of I-cannot-bring-myself-to-give-a-fuck… about anything. Ok, well, that’s not true, but we’ll get to that.
Today, I read this lovely piece by Neil Gaiman about the late Ray Bradbury, about how much joy he took in spending time with him, in continuing to think about him. I wondered how long it has been since I have taken that much joy in the company of another human being. That’s partly my wife’s fault, for dragging me to this god-forsaken backwater where I know no one, and like even less of them. But it’s really mostly my fault for being a miserable cunt, and not finding a bunch of like-minded people in whose company I might delight.
This whole thing began some time ago, as a response to a response to a response to the statement “Fuck. How good is Australia.” (which ends, I note with some pleasure, in the way that only Australians can manage to end a question… without a fucking question mark). Somewhere in that confusion of responses, was the suggestion that most of my thoughts probably stem from the ever-present discomfort of a bunch of grit in the pink bits between my legs, which is not an entirely unfair observation, but it got me thinking.
Before I go on, I’d just like to say thank you, Boris, by the way, for pointing out the sandy state of my vagina to everyone.
And so here I am, we are.
In it’s various incarnations, this little soliloquy has been a rant, a fleeting thought, an epitaph, a couple of god-awful stanzas of (something like) a poem, a rumination. It has concerned the decline in university enrolments in the arts, in education for education’s sake, in anything that doesn’t have a quantifiable return on one’s investment in the form of a well documented first-year-on-the-job-salary; it has discussed the rampant shift toward quick-fix, Band-aid politics in this country, the love of an extra dollar now at the expense of anything at all to safeguard our future; it has wondered, slack-jawed at the embrace of slagging off the opposition as a legitimate form of selling oneself – as opposed to having anything of worth to offer – see: Tony Abbott, Apple, Samsung, Oracle, Google, The Republican Party, The Coalition, The Democrats, The ALP, etc, etc; it has been a whine, a drone, an ear-shattering scream; it has been thoughtful and considered, and it has been a stream of baseless fucking profanity; it has discussed my lack of faith in humanity being able to even come close to fulfilling its potential, and Freud’s idea – I think it was Freud – that humanity as a whole is absolutely amazing, but individuals, to paraphrase, are a bunch of self-centred cunts; it has examined how fucking good – in fact – Australia actually is, and the fact that it’s so good, most of us don’t want anyone else to come here; it has looked at the paranoia about job-security and dwindling resources, and the fact that we’re all quite fucking happy for multi-national corporations to come in here and mine all those fucking resources, and not pay any reasonable fucking taxes to the people of this country who own those fucking resources; and it has made note of the greedy, selfish, bigoted people of this country who welcome those less fortunate with a barbed-wire fence and the constantly repeated refrain “Fuck off, we’re full”, while we go and crawl all over this planet like a fucking virus, working our drunken way from one Oz Bar to the next in our Essendon footy jerseys, swilling endless cans of VB for its nostalgic value, and telling anyone who tries to come and join us in Arsetralia to “adopt our bloody way of life”.
Yes, I suppose these days, and despite my recognition of the fact that we in this country do have it so much better than so much of the world – which just makes it fucking worse to be honest – when it comes to Arsetralia, most of my thoughts do start with “God damn that sand in my vagina.”
I can’t help but be reminded – in thinking of all these things, in considering how much more concerned we all are with our dollars than with each other – of Bill Hicks, and of him urging us to “QUIT PUTTING A GOD-DAMNED DOLLAR SIGN ON EVERY FUCKING THING ON THIS PLANET.”